


Impossible

by FancyMeetingYouHere



Category: GOT7
Genre: ...no seriously, Amerithaikong, Angst, Because I'm a sucker for that, Bullying, DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME EVER, Don't Kill Me, Friendship, Highschool AU, Hurt Jackson, Hurt Mark, I am taking liberties here, I hurt what I love, Is anyone even reading these?, Jinyoung's evil, M/M, Protective Jackson, Protective Mark, Sanctuary, Sanctuary AU, Sort Of, Vomiting, Whump, all the liberties, but there's a lot of hint-hint-nudge-nudge so I'm putting it as markson, character exploration, my universe my rules, not fully markson but definitely hinting at it, some fluffy markson friendship, this is pre-markson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23951869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyMeetingYouHere/pseuds/FancyMeetingYouHere
Summary: The Haneul academy in Korea is a challenge for Wang Jackson, the boy from Hong Kong. A challenge he's ready to tackle with all his heart and enthusiasm. It just might be that he wasn't as ready for it all as he thought he was.It starts with Mark. (And quite possibly ends with him as well.)
Relationships: Mark Tuan/Jackson Wang
Comments: 41
Kudos: 64





	1. Jackson

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING MUST READ!!!  
> There will be mentions and semi-descriptions of vomiting at certain places. Just in case some people find this uncomfortable or difficult to read about; don't read this story if that is the case. Mental health comes first (and physical as well). More warnings will appear at later chapters, but let me just say, this story is very unlike anything else I've posted so far. It's much darker in places and I'm really diving into a mean place in my head. I'm actually pretty proud how it came out, though that's mostly due to the way I wrote and paced certain things (being deliberately vague here because I don't want to spoil, sorry), but I'm fully aware that the things I write about in this particular story are a little unhinged at some point, so keep that in mind. (The opinions on this, if my proofreaders/friends are anything to go on, will probably range from 'this isn't that bad' to 'holy hell what did you do!') There's no archive warnings, nothing like that. No gore or sexual acts, but please do keep an eye on warnings. 
> 
> For the rest, enjoy. (Because we're all mad here MUWHAHHAHA!!)
> 
> Also, this is based on (a continuation of) the Thai add GOT7 made about CONTACT LENSES (I will never get over that fact) and if you haven't seen it yet you MUST GO WATCH IT!! If only because then the characterization in this will make a lot more sense. Just look up GOT7 Sanctuary on youtube ... and yes, there's also a version with english subs.

The definition of invisible becomes clear to Jackson at the end of his first week at Haneul academy. A trembling hand shoots into the air some twenty minutes into Math, the boy it belongs to facing his desk even as he addresses the teacher in accented Korean.

“Sir, may I go to the bathroom?”

Even their teacher gives a confused nod, blinking as if unsure whether this student should be in his class. It makes Jackson feel a little better about the fact he’s _certain_ he’s never seen this boy before. Not even in the break. Which is a shame, because the boy stands up as the teacher nods, head still down, and Jackson’s first thought is _wow, he’s pretty_.

Dark-blond hair is styled in a loop away from a pale and perfect face. The long white shirt covering even the boy’s hands paired with a blue jersey receives Jackson’s mental approval, especially when he sees the ripped jeans and beige boots. This guy knows how to dress right.

So why the _hell_ doesn’t Jackson know who he is?

The question is half-answered by a gloating snigger from the front. “You don’t look too good, Mark.”

The whole class has abandoned listening to the teacher in favor of staring at Mark, the thirty pairs of eyes obviously not helping. There is indeed a sheen of sweat on Mark’s face, his lips pressed into a line and skin pale as he shoots an almost scared look at whoever spoke. Jackson doesn’t even have to look to see who it was. He knows Jinyoung very well, though not personally.

The teacher calls their attention back irritably. “Settle down! That’s enough, Jinyoung.”

The boy either doesn’t care, or has the worst hearing Jackson’s ever known, because he gloats once more before Mark can make it to the door. “You look like you’re going to throw-up.” He proceeds to make a barfing noise, the student next to him shaking with silent laughter.

Has he mentioned he doesn’t like Jinyoung? Because he really doesn’t like Jinyoung. The guy acts like he’s better than everyone else, terrorizing the lower classes if they so much as look at him wrong.

“Jinyoung.” The teacher says as a warning. It doesn’t do much, not that Jackson had thought it would, and he gives Jinyoung’s head a piercing glare. Mark slams the door behind him, the teacher once again raising his voice to get their focus back on the white board.

It almost works. Jackson stops trying to drill a hole in Jinyoung’s head and shifts in his seat, trying to expel the guilt of not even realizing Mark _existed,_ before the whole class becomes chaos. The obvious sound of vomiting comes from right outside.

The class gasps as one, Jinyoung out of his seat before the teacher can even try to tell them to quiet down, and by then he’s lost all control. The retching outside becomes louder when Jinyoung yanks open the door, and the next second the guy is doubling over in laughter, pointing a hand down the hall.

At least half the class follows him out in morbid fascination, most of them letting out sounds of disgust and covering their nose with a sleeve.

“He spewed everywhere!” someone yells.

Jackson can’t say why he gets up, why he follows the teacher shouting ‘let me through’ and ‘go back inside’ when his insides are already up in knots, but it might have something to do with Jinyoung’s insane pleasure and the fact the boy is holding out his phone.

The hallway _reeks_. They weren’t lying about that. It’s acid and sour and _disgusting_ , but Jackson smiles despite it all because he ‘accidentally’ stumbles into Jinyoung and robs the boy of his perfect camera angle. The angry shove at his shoulder is hardly enough to move him, and by then his attention is no longer on Jinyoung but the mess in front. Even their teacher stands a little lost.

Mark is kneeling next to the wall, his back to them. Most of his lunch is now splattered in front of him, Mark himself shaking and breathing hard, the occasional wretch sounding out.

“Uhm-” Mr Kwang starts intelligently, which, seriously? Even Jackson could’ve done better than that, and he’s still trying not to grimace at the smell.

A door opening a little further down the hall saves their hilariously inept teacher from having to figure this out. Mrs Jung pokes her head out, then gasps as her eyes settle on Mark.

“Oh my-” she blinks bewildered at Mr Kwang, then the class still gawking curiously behind him. Her voice gains a hard edge. “Junsoo, I assume you’re just about to call the nurse?”

He nods miserably, then snaps his head up as if he’d been deep in thought. “Wha-”

Before he can get to the end of what would probably have been a brilliantly idiotic comment, Mark chokes on a cut off cry and his whole body starts heaving, nothing but bile leaking onto the already vomit-covered floor. It all looks understandably disgusting, but Jackson still feels like snarling at a grown-up when Mr Kwang, instead of helping, takes a quick hop backward.

_Severely useless._

Once again, Jackson acts without thinking, without second-guessing, without turning the question over and deciding on the best option. He acts because Mark is folding in on himself, retching turning to labored breathing and he’s about to fall into his own sick.

Jackson shoots forward, faster than anyone can comment. “Easy,” he murmurs, more to himself than Mark. He snatches the other by his shoulder, then secures his right arm under Mark’s chest, effectively keeping him from tipping forward.

The smell hits a second later, so much stronger now that he’s closer. _Ew._ He does a full body shiver. It’s nothing compared to the spasms running through Mark. Now that’s he’s holding him, it’s easy to feel the entirety of Mark shaking like a leaf, soft groans coming out as he leans on Jackson. The boy barely has the strength to keep his head up, let alone the rest of his body.

“That’s enough!” Mrs Jung snaps. She steps outside, closing her own classroom with a huff. “Everyone back inside! Junsoo, go back too.” She leaves out the ‘you’re no help, I see’, but Jackson would bet his month’s savings that she’s thinking it. He knew liked her from the first biology class last Tuesday.

Mr Kwang clears his throat. “Yes, right, come one now, back inside.” The shuffling behind Jackson indicates they’re actually listening, and he looks up at Mrs Jung, not entirely willing to just let Mark go.

“Do I have to-” he starts, shifting Mark in his arm and giving her a look.

She sighs and shakes her head. “If you don’t mind, Jackson. I’ll go get the nurse. Can you stay with him just for a minute?”

It’s hardly a difficult answer and he gives her a tight smile. “I don’t mind.”

“Thank you, Jackson,” she smiles at him, then she’s off down the hall. Everything falls quiet as her footsteps fade, the muffled sounds of Mr Kwang wrangling their class back into order the only thing Jackson can make out. Well, that, and the heavy breathing coming from Mark. Just when he wants to ask if the other wants to sit up (hanging above your own vomit _cannot_ be pleasant), Mark spasms in his grip, another round of nothing-but-bile coming up.

The first trickle of worry comes in as Jackson cranes his head to catch the tears on Mark’s cheeks, his face ashen as he moans.

“Are you okay?” he slips out, then bites his tongue. “Never mind. Stupid question.”

With something close to a low whimper, Mark stops heaving. His body shivers and shakes, the muscles Jackson feels under his hand tensing painfully. “It’s okay,” he tries softly, “the nurse is almost here.”

The running steps behind him almost drag out a sigh of relief, but he keeps it in. The last thing Mark needs is him thinking Jackson is annoyed with this, while it couldn’t be farther from the truth. Okay, he’s not overjoyed about crouching next to a pile of half-digested lunch, but Jackson’s never been able to ignore someone in need. He feels best when he’s helping people. This includes invisible boys wearing expensive clothing.

There’s a sympathetic hum before Mr Kim is crouching beside them, his face just visible for Jackson. The man raises an eyebrow. “Not having a great day, huh Mark?”

The answer is painfully obvious and Jackson rolls his eyes in secret.

“Seokjin, can I leave you to it?” Mrs Jung inquires, avoiding the worst of the splatter as she walks past to her class. Mr Kim nods in the corner of Jackson’s eye.

“Thank you, Yoon-A.”

She slips back inside with a last smile.

“Okay,” Mr Kim shifts a little closer, giving Jackson an encouraging smile before focusing his attention on the still shivering Mark. “Do you think you can walk to the office, Mark? Or do you need some help?”

The answer comes in the form of Mark’s muscles tensing suddenly. It spells disaster, Jackson knows that now. _Shit,_ he curses in his head as he grabs the other while more retching reveals nothing but bile. That’s the third damn time. This is getting ridiculous.

“He’s really sick,” he tells Mr Kim, toning down his glare when the man blinks at him, shocked. “He keeps doing that. Like …” he flounders and nods at the floor. The quarter seems to drop without further explanation, thank _god_ , and Mr Kim frowns.

“Mark? Can you tell me how you’re feeling?” He scoots a little closer. “Do you feel better or worse than before you threw up?”

The heck kind of question is that? Jackson cranes his head around to look at Mr Kim properly, but the man is focused on Mark, a thoughtful furrow in his brow. At least he’s taking this seriously, but Jackson still can’t place the question.

Then Mark speaks up, voice wrecked. “I feel sick. I -I keep feeling sick.” He takes a deep breath and Jackson tightens his hold, heart breaking at the scared voice. “I can’t stop.”

That’s not good. Even Mr Kim looks worried at that and Jackson gulps, shifting once again to alleviate the pins and needles his left leg is developing. He can’t let go of Mark, not when the other sounds this young and fragile. He may not know the boy, but Jackson’s protection instincts are going haywire at the shudders he can feel going through Mark’s slim body.

“How about we go to my office,” Mr Kim tries carefully. “Get away from all this. Maybe that’ll help?”

Mark doesn’t answer, head still hanging, and Jackson decides enough is enough.

“I’ll help you up, okay?” He squeezes Mark’s shoulder with his free hand. When all he gets in return is Mark’s hand coming up to grasp at Jackson’s, he takes it as a yes. “Okay,” he breathes.

With some help from Mr Kim to keep them both balanced, they manage to maneuver Mark up and around, until his back is leaning against the wall. At that point, Mr Kim takes over and carefully slings Mark’s right arm over his shoulders. It’s unclear whether it’s the movement or whatever’s making Mark sick in the first place, but he clutches his left arm over his stomach and hangs off Mr Kim’s shoulder as he retches again.

 _“Shit,”_ Jackson breathes before slapping a hand in front of his mouth. Luckily, Mr Kim just gives him a strained smile. The worry in the man’s eyes is clear and Jackson grows cold.

“I can-” he starts just as Mr Kim nods at their classroom.

“Go back in, I’ve got it.”

It doesn’t look like it when Mark is almost being carried by the man, the boy’s breathing bordering on sobs and eyes screwed shut in his pale face. He looks miserable. Jackson gulps.

“Are you sure?” He’s unwilling to leave though it’s not like he can provide much help. Mr Kim nods.

“Thank you for helping.” Then he nudges Mark into walking. “We’ll go slow, Mark. It’ll be okay.”

They’ve taken one step and Jackson hasn’t even been able to make himself turn toward the class’ door despite the wretched smell hanging in the hallway (he’s almost used to it) when Mark half-turns, the tip of his noise visible. “I’m sorry,” the boy croaks, “and thanks.”

There’re about a million things Jackson wants to say to that (why are you apologizing, get better soon, I’m sorry I didn’t see you before, I’m sorry everyone was such a dick just now), but all he manages is a silly wave and a soft ‘you’re welcome’ before they’re walking again. It’s painful to watch Mark stagger so much his knees keep giving out, pained moans all he can answer to Mr Kim’s careful compliments.

 _Stop_ , he snaps in his head, angrily spinning and marching into the classroom. He doesn’t lift his head to see how Mr Kwang reacts to him slamming the door, simply mumbles an apology and slips into his seat on the second row. He doesn’t lift his head period, staring blind at the equations in his book and holding his pen to paper with an iron grip.

He doesn’t write a single word for the remaining half hour.

At the end of class it takes him forever to pack up his stuff, focus waning and slipping with every blink. The lack from ‘ew’s outside is a good indicator someone came to clean up the mess during class, but Jackson’s stomach is still up in knots about leaving the room. He doesn’t know why until Mr Kwang steps up to him.

“Jackson, is it?” he says, then keeps talking without an answer. “Can you take Mark’s things to the nurse’s office, please?”

“Yes!” he blurts, possibly too loud. It’s only then he notices he’s the last one left, meaning Mr Kwang simply picked him out of necessity. He doesn’t care. The bag means an excuse to go see how Mark’s doing which instantly lifts a weight off his shoulder. He’s positively beaming as he grabs it, no longer as pissed at Mr Kwang for being a bit of an idiot. “I’ll go right now!” he promises.

Without waiting for an answer, which would probably be something along the lines of ‘but you have class’, Jackson races through the hallways, dodging students and backpacks alike as he weaves his way to the front office. The door to the nurse’s office lies right behind the main door inside. He knocks on it eagerly.

“Come in!”

“I have Mark’s bag! I was wondering how he’s-” Jackson trails off, the hand holding the mentioned bag aloft triumphantly falling to his side. The bag thuds into his leg and he stares at a surprised Mr Kim sitting at his desk, the two treatment tables to the right empty. In fact, the whole office is empty apart from Mr Kim.

The man blinks. “Mark’s bag- uhm. What’s your name?”

Mark isn’t there. Why the hell _not._

“I’m Jackson,” he says hollowly. “Where’s Mark?”

His stomach shrinks when Mr Kim gives him one of those patented doctor looks. “Mark’s been picked up by his mother to go see a doctor. I’m sure you can call him in a bit and ask him how he’s feeling.”

Jackson blinks. “Huh?”

“You’re his friend, right?” Mr Kim no longer sounds so sure. It takes a second before Jackson eagerly nods, only now realizing how the situation earlier, and him now returning Mark’s stuff, might seem.

“Totally,” he agrees, if anything not to seem like a total weirdo because even he’s not sure why he’s so invested in the health of someone he’s known for all of five minutes. “But eh,” he scrambles for a reasonable excuse, anything to get more information. “My phone died,” he blurts, “and I’m horrible at remembering numbers, so I- I can’t call him and I’m really worried.”

However pathetic his rambling sounds, it must’ve done something right. “I’m really glad to hear that,” Mr Kim smiles. It’s odd, not to mention somewhat suspicious, but Jackson lets it slide. “If you’re really that worried, then you can come back after the seventh hour, okay? I’ve asked Mark’s mother to keep me updated, but that might take a while. So if you’re done sooner-”

“I’m not.” Jackson interrupts him, then bites his lip. Damn, that was rude. _Do not be rude!_ “I’m sorry, I’m- I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Mr Kim assures him with a chuckle. “I’m just happy to see you care so much about Mark.”

There it is again. _Weird._ Jackson almost asks about it, but the late bell snaps him out of his musings and Mr Kim looks at him, amused.

“I think you need to run.”

Jackson gives a quick bow and bolts. He’s still late.

For the next two hours of class, he keeps the bag with him. Leaving it in his locker doesn’t feel right and handing it off at the reception is almost physically painful. The teachers nag at him for not paying attention, but Jackson swears he tries, he just keeps side-tracking into the memory of a trembling body sagging into his, a hand coming up to grasp desperately as a scared voice bounces around his head.

_I can’t stop._

It’s probably just food poisoning, right. Still not fun, and definitely scary, but nothing life-threatening … right? It’s not an actual disease or something permanent, something that’ll make Mark so much more scared than he was in the hallway when he somehow found the time to turn around anyway and _apologize_ to Jackson and thank him.

Mark’s fine, right?

The clock moves slower and slower the closer it ticks to 15:30. It’s almost deliberate. Jackson’s on the edge of his seat, literally willing the hands to move faster. They never do, of course, but he does witness the second the long hand hits the six, meaning he’s the first to start packing, even before the bell.

His next sprint is record worthy, a mad dash through the hallways that would’ve prompted his previous trainers into another speech about talent and it being natural-born. Because the five years of training had _nothing_ to do with it.

He races to the nurse’s office, Mark’s bag safe in his hand, and falls inside the moment he hears the confirmation to enter.

“Any news about Mark?” he huffs, still proud he can do two flights of stairs two at a time and barely get winded. It took practice, okay!

Mr Kim smiles, only there’s a strain to it. “Sit down, Jackson.”

That doesn’t sound good. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Mr Kim says, “I just want to talk to you.”

Jackson doesn’t move an inch, grabbing Mark’s bag tighter with nerves in his belly. “Something’s wrong.” It’s not a question this time and Mr Kim sighs.

“It’s not whatever you’re thinking. It’s not _that_ bad.”

“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” Jackson tells him icily. Memories are painful in that they always pop up when you least want them to, but Mr Kim snaps him out of it before it gets too bad.

“I don’t, not really, but you’re holding that bag tight enough to sprain something.”

Fuck it all, he is.

Deep breath. Take a damn _deep_ breath.

“Sorry,” he relents, perching on the nearest treatment table and Mr Kim swings around in his chair with a smile.

“Again, it’s fine. But before you say anything else, just know that Mark will be okay.”

“Why would I…”

Mr Kim sighs. “He’s going to have to stay overnight at the hospital.”

Jackson grows cold.

“But it’s mostly a precaution,” the man assures him. “They’re not entirely sure what caused the vomiting, but he’s improving.”

“He still hasn’t _stopped!”_ The words punch out of him. He jumps up, jittery. “How’s that even possible? How can they _not know_ what’s wrong with him!”

“They will,” Mr Kim stands up too, face serious. “Jackson, they will. For now, Mark is getting better and I promise he’ll be fine.”

“You can’t be sure,” Jackson croaks before he can help it, then quickly shakes his head. _Not the time._ “Sorry, that’s-” he clears his throat. “Thank you.” He bows and runs, never seeing Mr Kim’s furrowed brow or the way the man stares at the door long after he’s gone.

Jackson doesn’t even realize he still has Mark’s bag until he’s getting on the bus home. Oh well. Too late to return it now.

* * *

The next day goes by agonizingly slowly. Teachers seem even more attentive to Jackson zoning out than usual, or perhaps he’s simply doing it every five minutes. Whatever the case, by the time school is done he’s got a headache from all the stern talking-to’s he’s received. Going home and hiding in his pillow sounds like heaven, but there’s one little thing he has to do first.

In a weak moment last night, Jackson couldn’t help but nose around in Mark’s bag, eventually extracting a planner that was, surprisingly, all in English. The accent from the day before only then registered and Jackson felt stupid all over again. He was also excited. Mark’s a foreigner, just like him. He had also, in a complete stroke of luck, found a small part of scratchy writing that turned out to be Mark’s home address.

Eu- bloody- reka.

 _I am not a stalker._ Jackson tells himself as he rounds the corner with his phone in his hand, using google maps to find his way from the nearest bus stop to Mark’s house. _I am being helpful and kind. I am not a stalker._ The fact he even has to tell himself that probably says enough. Shit.

Still, the house pops up within seconds, a nice two-story a little further from the city center than Jackson’s current home, but still relatively close to school. There’s a tiny front yard that mostly consists out of a driveway holding a black sedan (not your typical family car) and a few pots of neatly cared for lavender plants. The smell is heavenly as Jackson steps up to the front door and rings the bell. He practices his spiel again in his head, holding his breath when the lock turns.

He did his best to look good today, forgoing his usual snapback and putting on a neat pair of jeans and a dark green sweater. The weather is still nice enough to lose his jacket.

A smaller woman with wavy, shoulder length, black hair opens, her dark eyes frowning at Jackson, though recognition settles on her face when she spots the bag in his hand.

“My name is Jackson Wang,” he introduces with a bow, shifting on his feet and wondering why the heck he’s so nervous. “Mark forgot his bag yesterday and I thought- well, I mean, he didn’t really forget, he just, he got sick and- uhm, I suppose you already know that part. Just, the thing is- I got it and- uhm-”

His fumbling gets worse and worse, the speech he so carefully prepared slipping away into murky water and laughing at him. Why does his mouth always run off on its own? Mark’s mother is even being patient enough to listen to him and all he can do is ramble.

Thankfully, she takes pity on him. “I’m Mark’s mother, Lydia,” she tells him with a wide smile. The first part is somewhat unneeded, but Jackson smiles gratefully anyways.

“It’s very nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Please,” she opens the door wider, inviting him in. “Call me Lydia.”

After a second of debate (I barely know this guy, what the hell am I doing), Jackson nods and steps inside, toeing off his shoes and sliding into a pair of slippers she puts down for him.

“Mark’s just in the living room,” she says warmly, already leading the way through a bright hallway filled with family photos. It’s homey and warm. “He’s been playing video games for hours, so I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”

Jackson almost laughs. _You see, about that…_

But there’s no time to even feel properly embarrassed about this entire subterfuge. The hallway opens up into a spacious living room and kitchen combo, the light colors persisting and giving the whole house Mediterranean vibes. It somehow suits the brilliant smile Lydia aims at the mop of blond hair sticking out from the top of the couch.

“Mark, your friend came over to bring you your bag.”

Jackson really needs to start correcting people on that, but now’s probably much too late. He watches with a somewhat painful smile as Mark flinches, then stands up and turns fast enough he stumbles which causes his mother to fuss and worry. If Jackson is honest, he’d say Mark’s eyes are scared when they first land on Jackson, then the boy slowly sinks into confusion, allowing his mother to push him back into the couch.

Jackson makes the whole thing easier by shuffling forward and around, putting himself clear in Mark’s line of vision. The boy still looks like he’s seen a ghost.

Uhuh, they’re _totally_ friends.

“Jackson?” Mark breathes.

Damn. Now he can’t even feel better about not knowing who this guy was until yesterday. He scratches his neck to try and hide his burning cheeks. From previous experience he knows he probably fails.

“Stay down and _rest_ ,” Lydia orders sternly, then leans back with a huff once she’s satisfied about the way the blankets are piled on her son. “I’ll get you both something to drink.”

With her self-proclaimed mission she’s gone, leaving behind a silence Jackson is, for once, unsure what to do with.

“I brought your bag,” he states after too many seconds of silent staring on both ends.

Mark nods, then frowns. he looks both exhausted and wary. “How do you know where I live?”

Jackson flushes all over, laughing nervously as he carefully drops the bag by the couch. “Yeah, uhm, about that. I sort of, looked at your planner.”

He tries the pouty puppy-dog eyes he knows his mother still can’t resist, adding in a few cute blinks. “Sorry for going through your bag.”

Mark’s lips twitch and Jackson unleashes his own smile, twisting so he can drop himself on the couch next to Mark. “I know it’s a little weird to show up here unannounced and all, but I didn’t really have your number and- well,” here he fumbles, clenching his fists in his lap as Mark glances over curiously. The other keeps being silent and it prompts the words out of Jackson’s mouth, despite knowing they’re embarrassing.

“I was worried.”

Mark stares, shocked. It’s much more than needed, Jackson feels, even if the other thinks it’s weird. But Mark’s soft murmur cuts off his inner grumbles.

“About me?” he says with a heaping amount of wonder. “But you don’t know me?”

At that Jackson frowns, a little disgruntled that yesterday hadn’t made such a lasting impression on Mark than it did on Jackson. “Not _well_ ,” he counters, peeved. “But I thought maybe we could. You know.” He gives another closed-mouthed smile. “You’re really okay though, right?”

This time Mark responds sooner, giving a small nod. Then he shrugs. “Just tired.”

 _Obviously_ , Jackson thinks. The other is literally sagging into the couch cushions, a hoodie twice his size swallowing him up as his face is pale and drawn. His eyes are wide open though, and seem to be staring _into_ Jackson. It’s a little unnerving.

“So,” he smacks his lips, sending Mark a small grin. “Where you from?”

It’s comedy gold to see Mark go slack-jawed, dragging himself back up as he stares at Jackson. “You speak English?!”

Well, duh. Jackson keeps grinning, internally celebrating having guessed right about Mark probably not meeting many other English speakers at their school. The pure joy on the other’s face is only dampened by his fatigue, and even that seems to be fading.

“You’re not kidding? You actually, for real, speak English? You can understand me and talk to me and- are you kidding! How? I mean, where did you learn?!”

_Holy-_ Okay, so, Mark speaks _fast._ Jackson holds up a hand, laughing sheepishly.

“Slow- slow down, wait. It’s still my second language. I’m not that fast.”

Mark never loses his smile. And if the boy’s gaze before had been intense, then Jackson no longer knows what to call this. It feels like Mark’s whole world has shrunk to him, like the other has simply handed over his undivided attention to anything to do with Jackson. It’s both terrifying and exhilarating. Jackson giggles.

“You know you have this look like you’re staring into my soul.”

“I know,” Mark grins. “You gonna answer my question?”

Jackson drags his left leg onto the couch, leaning sideways into the back and propping his head on his hand. “I went to an international school in Hong Kong,” he obliges, then grins himself. “Mind if I ask you one?”

With a cautious look Mark nods.

“How the hell do you get your teeth that white?!”

They’re both laughing by the time Lydia comes back with the drinks. It’s the best Jackson’s felt since coming to Korea.


	2. Mark

“Are you sure?” Jackson asks him for the third time.

Mark rolls his eyes, leaning back into the couch as he sits cross-legged under his blanket. “Yes, Jackson,” he huffs out a disbelieving laugh. _Now,_ the boy suddenly becomes concerned about imposing. Not four hours ago when he showed up at their doorstep with Mark’s bag and the biggest puppy-dog eyes known to man because he was worried. It came so unexpected that Mark just let it happen, then found himself on the couch grinning at Jackson’s grand tales about his life in Hong Kong. Most of what Mark’s been able to make out is that Jackson loves his family and is passionate about everything he does. It’s somewhat thrilling to see.

They were so caught up in it all (“You’re from _LA,_ ” Jackson gapes. “Dude, that’s _amazing!”)_ that the hours flew by without them realizing, and now it’s basically dinner time and Lydia invited Jackson to eat with them.

Funny thing about his mom, is that she never really gives people a choice when it comes to that. Not that she forces them, but it’s a very firm invitation that really only allows for one answer. Mark had to hide a smile when Jackson’s manners seemed to clash with his mother’s particular brand of nonsense-it’s-fine-you’re-staying.

That was ten minutes ago and Jackson hasn’t let it go since.

“But it’s not like I can’t-”

Mark decides to just get to the bottom of this. “Do you want to leave? Because you’re not _ordered_ to stay, you know.”

“No!” Jackson yells, almost scared. He’s backtracking with his whole body, face shocked. “That’s not it! I’m just, well, this wasn’t really planned and you’re still getting better and it was really just to return your bag but- … yeah.”

Yeah. Jackson did that, and then they played games. And talked. And even took out their phones to show photos and videos from their hometowns. Mark’s been here for almost two years now, but this is quite possibly the most he’s talked with, and divulged to anyone.

Jackson’s just … _different._

He gives Jackson a grin and is relieved when the other smiles at him. “My mom get’s a little over-excited when it comes to me and friends,” he confesses with an embarrassed look. It’s true, not the least because there was _no way_ he was ever bringing Jinyoung and his gang back home, but also because he’s always been bad at stepping up to people.

Jackson snorts. “God, yes, I feel yah.” He shares a conspiring look. “Why are mom’s like that?”

“Probably something to do with the unconditional love thing.”

“Probably,” Jackson agrees with a grin, but his expression softens and he nods at the back of the house where they can hear his mom busying herself in the kitchen. She’d refused any and all help, though Jackson had definitely tried. “Your mom’s really nice,” Jackson says honestly. “I mean, I just showed up here and she’s making me dinner. Not everyone does that.”

Mark wonders if his next words might be too much, if it’ll be considered going too far or might be read into too deep, but he’s always been honest, sometimes to the point of strangely affectionate. He figures the sooner Jackson sees the real him, the better. After last year, Mark’s learned a very important lesson about faking things. Namely, that he sucks at it.

“I almost threw up on you the first time we met and you still came all the way here to check on me.” He gives him a ‘duh’-look. “Not everyone does that either.” When Jackson seems confused and a little terrified, Mark drops his head on the back of the couch and giggles. “That’s a good thing. At least, _I_ think so.”

“Of course, I came to check,” Jackson mumbles affronted, a frown directed at Mark. “Mr Kim didn’t know what was wrong and said you had to stay at the hospital overnight. I was worried.”

It dawns on him that Jackson truly believes this is a standard reaction, perhaps not so much because he thinks the rest of the world does it too, but because he believes they should. It’s refreshing. Especially after all the distrust and hate Mark’s been living in this past year.

“Thanks,” he tells him, and hopes he can convey with nothing but his eyes how much he means that.

Jackson goes a little shell-shocked. “Yeah, sure-”

He jumps in place, even making Mark flinch, and then plucks his vibrating phone out of his pocket. His cheeks go red.

“It’s-uh” he glances at Mark with a sheepish smile. “Do you mind if I … it’s my mom.”

Which is important to Jackson if all his previous tales about how amazing and strong and caring she is are any indication.

“Go ahead,” he accentuates it by nudging Jackson’s knee with a socked foot, then realizes. “Do you want me to leave?”

Jackson’s already shaking his head, a hand absentmindedly coming out to pat Mark’s still outstretched leg as he’s already picked up. His face lights up like it’s Christmas, smile robbing Mark of any teasing comments. Love radiates off Jackson unabashedly as he waves at his phone.

No matter what the other said, Mark feels strangely like he’s intruding on something.

**“Mom! How are you?”**

**“Everything’s good here, Jiaer. How are you? Have you eat- Jackson? Where are you?”**

There’s maybe a second of warning in which Jackson glances over at Mark – _oh hell no_ – and then the other boy turns and leans into the couch, aiming his phone at both him and Mark with a giant grin.

They’ve been lounging on this couch for three hours, Mark in nothing but a hoodie, sweatpants and a bundle of blankets. His hair’s a mess and he can barely get his hoodie up before he’s presented with the immaculate image of Jackson’s mother. Of course, she’s a beautiful woman with straightened black hair, minimal make-up and the same come-at-me-I’ll-show-you-what-I’ve-got expression Jackson obviously learned from her. Needless to say, Mark’s intimidated.

 **“I’m at a friend’s house,”** Jackson exclaims happily, then shoots a cautionary look at Mark. **“I mean, I think so.**

 _Yes, you idiot._ Mark thinks fond, but remembers his manners before he can say it out loud. That would’ve been cringey. Or more cringey than him sitting cross-legged on his own couch, feeling bleh and looking like it while attempting to hide his face from Jackson’s supermodel mom.

 **“I’m Mark,”** he mumbles from behind his hands, going for a bow. **“It’s very nice to meet you.”**

Her face lights up in surprise and Jackson does a hilarious double take. Yeah. He may have forgotten to mention he could speak a little Mandarin. But only a little.

 **“Mark!”** She repeats his name like they’re long lost friends, which, if Jackson’s suddenly red face is any indication, might not be usual. She gives him a polite smile. **“My name is Sophia, it’s very nice to meet you too. My son completely forgot to mention you to me, or the fact you speak Mandarin?”**

It's half a question and Mark smiles sheepishly, Jackson looking hilariously embarrassed though he keeps the phone level.

“Not much,” he confesses, knowing from Jackson that both his parents can speak English. “I can mostly understand it, but speaking’s a lot harder.” Mark’s by no means native when it comes to understanding, but he can pick up enough to make sense of it if the other isn’t speaking too fast. It earns him an impressed look regardless.

Jackson somehow feels the need to shove his embarrassment onto Mark by commenting loudly. **“Mark grew up in LA, mom. He came here only two years ago but his Korean’s amazing!”**

**“That _is_ impressive Mark. Maybe you can give my son some tips then.”**

It’s an obvious tease, Jackson whining a good-natured ‘mom’, but Mark still feels the need to add. “Jackson’s Korean’s better than mine.”

The other gives him a surprised look that falls into a smile, something nearing wonder in the way he stares at Mark. Sophia snaps her son out of it before it gets awkward. **“That’s very humble of you, Mark.”**

Which, as much as it makes him blush behind his hands, is not nearly bad enough for the knee-jerking reaction Jackson gives which would consist of him spinning back around with a sudden blush and taking the phone with him while grouching something Mark can’t understand.

Sophia laughs, then answers in the same language and now Mark’s a little curious about what they’re saying. It must be Cantonese, and he’s fairly sure it’s about him. Jackson shoots him a guilty look. Yup, they’re definitely talking about him. It doesn’t sting as he’d feared, merely makes something glow in his belly because Jackson’s still blushing and grouching, the ghost of a smile creeping up.

Then the other drops his head and sighs, turning the phone back to face Mark. He blinks, confused, especially when Sophia smiles at him. **“I was just telling my son to stop being rude and let me compliment his new friend.”**

She’s holding in a grin, obviously enjoying teasing Jackson, and Mark feels a little emboldened to drop his hands, albeit with warm cheeks. **“Thank you,”** he mumbles.

Jackson is groaning and laughing behind the phone, the arm holding it up shaking. Sophia falls into a grin and chuckles. **“Gaga, what are you doing back there?”**

At this Jackson eeps and whips the phone back around even as Sophia’s laughter already rings out. The full force of Jackson’s pout is levelled at the phone, and when it only makes his mother laugh more, he bites his lip and looks at Mark.

‘Sorry’, he mouths, but Mark just shakes his head.

He nods at the phone and mouths back **‘Gaga?’**.

Jackson smiles wide.

“Mark! Jackson!” His mom calls from the kitchen. “Can you boys come get your plates!”

 **“I have to go, mom,”** Jackson says as he stands up. **“Mark’s mom made us dinner.”**

She lets out a pleased sound, Jackson’s face softening. **“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”**

**“Alright, Jiaer. Go enjoy! And tell Mark’s mother thank you from me. It’s about time you had a good, home-cooked meal again.”**

Jackson blushes and rolls his eyes, then waves at the camera. **“Love you, mom.”**

**“I love you too, Jiaer.”**

He hangs up with the same brilliant smile from before still lingering. It’s endearing. Jackson’s honest in the most surprising way, unafraid to show his true self while still aware it’ll invite controversy.

Mark keeps being surprised by it.

“Stay here.” Jackson tells him, putting his phone back in his pocket. “I’ll go get the plates.”

Mark snorts, unable to hide the fond roll of his eyes. Without asking, he clamps onto Jackson as the boy walks past, then uses Jackson’s arm to heave himself up. They almost fall, Jackson letting out a surprised ‘hey’ before hopping back to catch them both and Mark can’t help his wheezy laugh as he leans into Jackson’s very sturdy frame. There’s nothing but a minimal twinge in his stomach which, considering how bad he felt yesterday, is a win.

Jackson pouts at him. “Dude, no! I’m the guest and you’re sick.”

“I’m fine,” he starts pulling Jackson along, feeling the other fall into step behind him as he keeps a hold of Jackson’s wrist. The other grumbles as they reach the hallway, letting out a sigh.

“You’re impossible.” Jackson’s tone of voice makes clear it’s a joke, possibly even meant to be fond, and Mark honestly hasn’t felt this at ease with anyone since he got here. The smell of chicken soup and something spicy hits him as they walk into the wide kitchen at the back of the house. There’re two plates waiting on the cream-colored island, one deep bowl with soup and a flat plate with rice and curry. Despite almost drooling at the latter, Mark knows the soup is for him. No spicy food for the next few days, doctor’s orders.

Sophia holds her own plate, pointing at the island. “On second thought, Mark, it’s probably best if you eat here.”

Because soup. Right.

“Thanks, mom.” He slips into the high bar-seat, giving her a grateful smile when he spots the small pieces of chicken. He’s _hungry._

Jackson doesn’t fail to bow respectfully. “Thank you, Miss Tuan. My mother sends her regards and wanted to thank you as well for letting me stay for dinner.” The boy is so overly serious about it, Mark can’t help but share a smile with his mom. She shakes her head, fond.

Yup. Jackson’s been approved.

“It’s all fine, Jackson. I’m simply glad Mark has a friend over.” (And cue his embarrassed blush. Thanks mom.) “Give your mother my love next time, and enjoy your dinner.” She glances at Mark. “I’ll be upstairs in my office if you need me.”

“Thanks, mom!” He yells after her as she turns into the hallway, Jackson also saying ‘thank you’ again at the same time. He’s displaying the highest manners Mark’s ever seen in any teenager, knowing he’s already endeared himself to his mother because of it. “Do you like curry?” he says, merely to have something to say as Jackson slides into the second bar-seat.

“I do,” Jackson promises, taking a deep whiff. “It smells great.”

It really does. Mark sort of wants to steal a bite, but just the thought of his mother’s disapproving glare stops him. (That, and remembering very clearly how his stomach stabbed and squirmed yesterday.) He sighs inwardly and turns to his soup. At least it has chicken bites and veggies. It’s not just tasty water.

Two spoons in, a vaguely distressed sound comes from next to him. Jackson’s looking a little pale, but quickly laughs it off when Mark turns to him.

“Nothing,” he promises even though nothing was _asked_. “Just bit my tongue.”

Which would have worked as an excuse if Mark can’t see literal beads of sweat forming on Jackson’s brow. What the- “Are you okay?” Instant worry sets in. His eyes shoot to Jackson’s plate, seeing he only had a small bite. “Do you have any allergies?”

His mother had asked and Jackson had said no, but maybe something got lost in translation.

“Nope, no, no allergies.” Jackson grins wide, a clear drop rolling down his temple. Something is _wrong._

“Jackson,” Mark shifts to study the other’s face. “You really don’t look-”

Jackson shoots up, groaning. “Oh god, I can’t do this.”

_What?_

The boy starts fanning his face, dabbing a sleeve at his temples as he goes for the fridge and yanks it open. “Do you have any milk?” he turns desperate eyes on Mark.

_Uhm…_

“Yeah-uh, sure,” he stutters, knowing he probably looks as confused as he feels. “In the door, I think.”

Jackson nods his thanks and grabs the carton, then shoots his eyes around.

“On your top left,” Mark directs him to the cabinet and Jackson plucks out a glass, filling it with shaking hands. The first inkling of an idea comes in when the boy gulps in two large mouthfuls, keeping the second in his mouth for a moment with puffed cheeks.

Mark looks at the plate of curry again, blinking in realization. “Jackson,” he starts, drawing the other’s attention. “Do you not like spicy food?”

He receives a sad look, then Jackson swallows, a guilty chuckle coming out as he places the milk back in the fridge. His shoulders sag a little as he walks back, sinking into his seat with his gaze focused on the glass in his hands. He takes a deep breath. “I kind of can’t take spicy food,” he mumbles.

Is this guy for real?

“What do you mean you _can’t?”_

Jackson shoots him a look, more sweat glistening on his forehead. The boy points at it. Oh. Right.

Knowing his mom, she probably put in at least four peppers, the pan with leftovers cooling down on the stove for his father later tonight, and possibly even to save in the fridge. If Jackson reacts this much to a simple mouthful …

“Do you mind soup?” Mark tries.

“That’s yours,” Jackson shakes his head. “I’ll just eat the edges of the rice, it’s-”

 _Rice!_ Mark jumps up at the thought, plucking two bowls out of the drawer in the island. “We have more, you know.” He tells Jackson’s shocked face with a smile. Which, as he pops open the rice cooker, is an understatement. Apparently his mother just made a new batch, meaning he can scoop out a generous bowl. The high pot on the stove also reveals more soup, complete with half a chicken. he does his best to put some nice pieces in the second bowl along with the broth. From what he’s tasted so far, it should be good for a non-spicy eater.

He places both bowls in front of Jackson, nabbing a new spoon out of the drawer. “Try that,” he tells a semi- apologetic and cautiously grateful Jackson. The boy looks smaller with his hunched shoulders, sending Mark a tight-lipped smile.

“Thank you.” 

“Try it,” he grins, hopping back into his own seat. When Jackson nods but only keeps his gaze on the food, Mark keeps his eyes firmly on him. Jackson shoots him a questioning look.

“You’re doing that staring thing again,” the other comments with a pout. “It’s a little unnerving.”

Mark’s used to it and nods at the food. “Just try it.”

After a moment of silence Jackson rolls his eyes. “You’re really impossible, you know that.”

He sticks a full spoon of soup demonstratively into his mouth, giving Mark a deadpan look which falls into one of appreciation and obvious delight at _not_ having his tongue scorched. Mark chuckles, turning back to his own food. “So you keep saying.” 


	3. Jackson

“You just wrote down Africa is the main capital of Germany.” Mark comments offhandedly while popping the last gummi bear into his mouth. He dons a shit-eating grin when Jackson pouts at him from across the lunch table.

“School is Korean,” he shoots back, already crossing out his answer and scribbling the right one in its place. Things may have gotten a bit late last night with calling home and chatting to his family, meaning his geography homework got forgotten and he now has to speed-work his way through two pages during their lunch. Mark is being of zero help as he takes the opportunity to swipe at Jackson’s fruit juice. He’s barely able to save it.

“You sure do have your appetite back,” Jackson snarks, but Mark’s smile shows the other boy isn’t rattled by Jackson’s stress-temper. It’s only been a week and a half and Jackson already knows the difference between Mark-in-thought and Mark-zoning-out, which has saved his friend many a times in class. Not that he’s seeing much thanks now.

Mark leans his chin on his hand. “How about you make that the Atlantic instead of the Pacific, unless you think Columbus sailed over the Great P.”

“Korean,” Jackson stresses, taking the help with a small grunt. His friend is _impossible_ in English. He uses it all the damn time now, ever since he found out Jackson can understand him. As fun as it is, the other is never going to feel more comfortable about his Korean unless he practices.

Suddenly, Mark lets out an exceptionally loud cough, sounding suspiciously like ‘b’. Jackson glares at him. “I’m not wholly hopeless in geography, you know.”

“Alright,” Mark acquiesces. “If you think the equator runs from the North to the South pole, go ahead.”

Jackson blinks at his paper, seeing his hand frozen above the ‘c’ … fuck it, he really had been about to answer that. He drops his head with a loud groan.

“I just missed my mom, okay!” He laments in general. Why should he be punished for simply talking to his family. It’s not _fair._

“You’re an epic momma’s boy,” Mark says fond, a single hand patting his head in a there-there motion.

Jackson pouts into the table. _Unfair!_ Then frowns when his pen vanishes from his hand, his notebook soon being tugged out from underneath his arms. When it doesn’t slap him on the head in the next five seconds, he drags his head up to see what Mark has planned.

Finishing his homework, it seems.

Jackson frowns before commenting. “You’re being remarkably fast for someone who claims to be rubbish at reading and writing Korean.”

Mark smiles, eyes never leaving the page. “I remember the questions.” Then he finishes with a flourish and tosses Jackson’s notebook back just as the bell for end of lunch rings and he winks. “But you’ll have to translate.”

When Jackson glances down, Mark’s small chicken handwriting spells out all the answers in English and he can’t help but bark out a laugh. “You’re impossible,” he chuckles. To which Mark shrugs, successfully snatching Jackson’s fruit juice off the table. This time, Jackson lets him.

As told, Jackson translates the last five questions during Math, their class before geography, only to get stuck on Mark’s horribly fast writing on the last one. It’s simply impossible to make out. Mr Kwang luckily chooses that moment to turn to the board and draw out a graph from the book, leaving Jackson with an opening to poke Mark’s side.

“Yo, what word is this?” He breaks his own rule, hoping the English will prompt Mark into answering. When he glances sideways, however, the whole problem becomes moot. A cold-spot grows in Jackson’s belly as he takes in the paler-than-normal skin, Mark’s eyes glued to the table-top and one arm clutching suspiciously at his stomach.

_Oh shit._

“Mark,” he whispers, carefully grabbing his friend’s tense shoulder. “You okay?”

_Don’t let it be the same as last week. Please, just don’t let it be the same._

His prayers go unanswered when Mark curls into himself. _“Shit,”_ he hisses, then frantically blinks his eyes while refusing to look at Jackson. “I feel sick.” He drags in a shaky breath and the day falls into icy darkness. “It’s like last time. I don’t-”

“Mr Kwang!” Jackson shouts while his hand shoots up. Mark curls in further next to him, back starting to shake oh so familiarly. It’s terrifying. “Mark’s sick,” Jackson croaks at Mr Kwang’s bewildered face. “I need to take him to the nur-”

Mark jumps up beside him, face ashen as he races for the door.

What is he- “Mark!” Jackson yells, but the other wrenches the door open, throwing a single strangled word over his shoulder. “Don’t!” The door slams and he’s gone. No spine-chilling sounds follow this time.

The whole class is silent as Jackson throws both of their stuff into his bag, then yanks Mark’s out from under his seat and mumbles sorry at Mr Kwang’s dumbfounded ‘where are you going?’.

He freezes one step from the door, Jinyoung raising his hands and beginning a slow clap. _No,_ Jackson thinks to himself, doing his best to ignore the stupid bully. _He’s baiting you. Don’t do it._

“Do you think he made it to the toilet this time? Or maybe he barfed all over the stairwell. That’ll be one hell of a mess.”

“Jinyoung, I think that’s quite-”

But Jinyoung isn’t listening to Mr Kwang, isn’t even looking at him. Jackson can feel the asshole’s stare on his neck, slowly turning even though he’s screaming at himself not to. But Jinyoung filmed Mark last timed, took out his fucking phone and _filmed him_ , then proceeded to show it to others like some sort of funny video.

The boy’s sneer deepens when their eyes lock. “How long do you think it’ll be before they ask him to clean it up himself.” His face goes mock-affronted. “He’s the one who can’t keep his food down. Must be his American gluttony. Such a waste.”

Jackson’s hand tingles before he realizes he slammed it on Jinyoung’s desk, the sound unlocking the venomous words he’s been keeping in for too long. It seems like no one has ever told Jinyoung the truth and Jackson’s almost grateful he gets to be the one to do it.

“You’re the waste,” he growls. “If you honestly think watching someone who’s in pain is funny, then you’re the _fucking_ waste.”

“Oh,” Jinyoung’s eyes go wide in derision. “He knows an English word! Is that why Mark latched onto you like a lovesick puppy?”

“If you don’t have anything sensible to say, then shut up.”

Jinyoung smirks at him. “Well, I guess now we know why Mark never talks.”

“That’s enough!” Mr Kwang seems to have finally located his voice. It breaks the icy stillness of the class, Jackson snapping his eyes away from Jinyoung’s poisonous stare. He’s wasted enough time.

“I’m going to help Mark,” he snarls at no one and everyone at the same time. Slamming the door is satisfying, but then the worry seeps back in as he wonders where Mark could have gone. “Shit.” He bites his lip. He wasted too much time.

It takes two tries, but the second set of bathrooms is lucky. Or unlucky, depending on the point of view.

The two sinks are empty on the left, the three stalls further on all seemingly empty as well until Jackson spots the knees in ripped jeans and beige shoes peeking through the gap between the closest stall and the floor. The retching follows right after and it’s last week all over again.

“Damnit, Mark,” Jackson breathes as he drops the bags on the floor and closes the door. The doctors couldn’t pinpoint the reason last time, noting it a fluke of something Mark ate or possibly stress when it went away again after a few hours, but now it’s obviously back with a vengeance and Mark sounds even more miserable than last time as he calls out.

“Gaga?”

“I’m here,” he shuffles closer, debating whether to run for the nurse or check on Mark first. The choice is taken out of his hands when Mark’s phone slides out from under the side of the stall.

“Call my mom? Please?”

Right. Because last time his mother came to pick him up from the nurse’s office. Might as well cut out the middleman.

“Okay,” he crouches down next to the stall, grateful for the plan of action. He only has to tap the screen three times before it’s ringing. Lydia picks up after the fifth, voice surprised.

“Mark? Sweetie, is everything okay?”

Jackson wants to be anywhere else but sitting next to a painfully sick Mark about to break the news to his sweetheart of a mother that her son is inexplicably sick for the second time in as many weeks. He swallows back bile himself.

“Miss Tuan? It’s Jackson. Mark got sick again.”

As if to prove his words, Mark’s dry hacking echoes in the tiled bathroom, a pained groan following right after. Judging by Lydia’s silence, she heard.

“When?” she manages with the smallest of trembles in her voice.

Jackson gulps, eyeing the wall between him and Mark. “Just now. He was fine during lunch, I think.”

She takes a deep breath. “Okay. Thank you for calling, Jackson. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

He gives a small ‘bye’, then the line goes dead. There’s a suspicious silence coming from next to him and he taps the wall with a knuckle. “Your mom is coming. Fifteen minutes.”

The sound that comes through is not one Jackson expected. Mark sobs once, then spits out _something_. “Thanks,” he croaks. Another sob is forcibly cut off leaving Jackson feeling emptier than ever. The following strained silence makes up his mind for him and he shoots up to try the door. It’s open. Possibly, Mark didn’t have time to throw the lock on before- yeah.

“Hey,” Jackson crouches down behind his friend, rubbing a careful hand over his back. Mark’s trembling again, just like last time. His forearms are leaning on the toilet seat, head hanging above them and shoulders tense. The only difference would be that this time Mark is wearing a long brown sweater over a black, long-sleeved shirt.

It seems almost pointless to ask, but Jackson can’t stop the question. “Is it the same as last time?”

Mark shudders, breaths gulping as one arm slowly goes from the seat to cradle his stomach. “Feels like it. I don’t- I don’t know. I don’t know what happened last time.”

He sounds scared again, only this time there isn’t enough room for Jackson to get up next to him to hold him. He bites his lip, Mark’s head shaking in the air. Suddenly he’s mad at the doctors. He’s mad at the school, at the useless nurse, at Mr Kwang and his lacking of a backbone and fucking _Jinyoung_ for thinking pain is something worth laughing at.

“It’s okay,” he promises. The determination is based on nothing but his own force of will, but Jackson only cares about the fact that Mark needs it. “You’ll be okay, just like last time.”

For a moment Mark doesn’t answer. He spits once, a large shudder causing Jackson to bite his lip harder. Eventually Mark breaks the silence with a flimsy voice.

“Like last time, yeah, but I just-” it changes to a groan, Mark’s head sinking lower. Shit. Maybe Jackson should have run for the nurse. “I feel really sick. I felt fine before. I just- fuck.”

“It’s okay,” Jackson promises him through another round of retching. He keeps rubbing Mark’s back, keeps counting minutes in his head. “You’ll be okay.” The words lose their meaning after the fourth rendition, but Jackson keeps it up, if only because Mark doesn’t talk again after that, meaning Jackson keeps hearing the naked terror and confusion from his last statement over and over again. It’s enough to make his eyes water, his own fears causing him to crouch into a ball and keep a terrified eye on Mark.

_Please, be okay._

Jackson eventually has to leave to get Mark’s mother. It’s made almost impossible when Mark’s cracked voice stops him just before he closes the door.

“You’ll come back, right?”

As if the other fears Jackson might just leave him there, might’ve faked the phone-call all together and is planning some unforetold cruelty. “Yes,” he says loud, almost disbelieving. The sudden realization that _something_ made Mark this doubtful fills him with a white-hot rage. Where’s his trusted punching bag when you need it?

As soon as she sees him, Lydia follows with quick steps and wringing hands, only to fall into protective mother-mode the second she spots Mark hanging over the toilet bowl. It makes Jackson miss his mother more than usual, her calming voice an echo in his head as he stands shaking with both fury and worry when Mark is unable to keep from sobbing any longer, his mother’s fingers softly carding through his hair. She’s crouching in Jackson’s former spot and he feels like he’s intruding.

Lydia calls his attention just when he thinks he should maybe _leave_. There are tears in her eyes, but Jackson knows enough not to mess with a mother wearing Lydia’s current expression. The term momma-bear was created for a reason.

“Jackson, can you please help him up?”

“Yes, sure.” Anything to help.

She steps away with a sigh, picking up both their bags from by the door.

Getting Mark to his feet is easier than last time which instills Jackson with false hope because by the second step they take, Mark is already veering left, neck craning so he can spit his next mouthful of bile into a sink.

“I can’t,” he breathes brokenly. “Please, I can’t.”

Walk, it becomes clear. Mark’s legs buckle, his weight dropping onto Jackson and the latter staggers. The seemingly thin boy has some muscle on him it seems, meaning Jackson’s job just became a little harder.

Lydia is back on Mark’s other side, stroking his sweat-logged hair off his forehead. “It’s just to the car, I promise.”

But Mark’s still shaking his head, his left hand clawing at Jackson’s shoulder. He’s basically crying now. “I feel worse, mom. I can’t. It hurts.”

And _that_ hurts too. Lydia visibly swallows back her tears as Jackson bites his lip so hard he thinks the impression might be lasting. It’s impossible to fight a bug or throw a punch at _nausea_ , but Jackson’s ready to fight _something_ if only to get Mark back to his normal smiley self. This broken boy currently hanging off his shoulder and begging his mom to take the pain away is _not_ the Mark Jackson’s come to know.

“I can’t carry you, sweetie,” Lydia eventually confesses with a desperate look. “It’s just a few minutes-”

“I can carry him,” Jackson boldly claims before he thinks it through. Can he? Mark isn’t too tall, not too heavy either, but it’s still a few minutes and Jackson’s never tried that before. Lydia’s relieved face makes him swallow his doubts, though, her immense gratitude enough to give him that extra bit of strength.

“Jackson?” Mark is almost delirious with pain or exhaustion, shaking like a leaf. He’s barely able to lift his head. “What are you-”

“Trust me,” says Jackson, earnest. He’s met with a proud gaze from Lydia as Mark follows the directive without qualms. Her smile becomes two silent words.

‘Thank you.’

He doesn’t feel equipped to answer beyond a small nod, mostly because his face is burning like he’s been in the sun too long.

Picking Mark up bridal style turns out to be so much easier than Jackson feared, he instantly curses at himself for not doing it from the bloody start. His friend sinks into his hold, arms crossed over his stomach and eyes shut. It’s terrifying to be the one Mark trusts enough to do this, but Jackson also knows he’d never be able to let anyone else do it either.

When the hell did _that_ happen?

There’s no time to ponder it, no time to look at Mark’s pale face and floppy hair and beg someone to just _fix him_ before Lydia is ushering him out and down the hall. Mark pukes once more before they make it to the car, Lydia using paper towels she took from the bathroom to wipe the worst off of Mark’s sweater. She even tries to clean Jackson’s, but he makes an agitated noise. It’s just bile now anyway. He doesn’t _care._

She takes the hint and walks ahead to open the car door, helping Jackson to carefully maneuver Mark into the shotgun seat. The other isn’t truly helping, simply presses his lips into a line and lets it happen. When he’s buckled in, just before Jackson closes the door, Mark’s voice rings out.

“Thank you.”

It feels like much more than just carrying him to the car and Jackson reaches inside to squeeze Mark’s upper arm.

“Get well soon, okay?”

He receives a faint smile that falls into a grimace. Whatever, he’ll take it.

With that, they’re off, Lydia racing to the end of the street and then Jackson’s staring at nothing. It takes him five minutes to realize Lydia took his bag with her, then another to realize he doesn’t care as much as he should. In the end he looks up at the sky, at the baby blue peeking through the white clouds.

“Mark’s fine,” he tells whoever keeps trying to prove him wrong, daring them to do it again. Because this time, for real, Mark’s _fine._

* * *

(The doctors keep asking him the same thing and Mark keeps telling them the same thing because his insides are liquifying and it _hurts!_

“I didn’t drink any fucking chlorine!”

They jump at the noise, blink at his English, then repeat the same question.

Mark throws up again.)

* * *

To recap, Mark is once again back home, exhausted and eating broths to calm his stomach, while the doctors are no closer to figuring out how the boy keeps ending up like that in the first place. It’s unnerving to say the least and utterly maddening most of the time, meaning Jackson’s given up on trying to focus on class. Instead, by the end of the school day, he has a page in his history notebook filled with thoughts and similarities about Mark’s ‘episodes’.

They both happened during Math, though at different days. They both happened after their second break, meaning it could be food related, but the cafeteria hands out the same food to everyone and Mark’s the only one Jackson knows of who got sick.

Allergy?

He crossed it out, then put it back with a question mark. Maybe it’s a different kind of allergy with a different reaction or something. Anything at this point sounds better than the ‘they’re just guessing’ that Mark sent him late last night.

If the doctors are ‘just guessing’ then Jackson feels inclined to do some digging himself. Having it happen again is simply not an option. Ever.

His brooding walk is interrupted by a nervous clearing of a throat and Jackson blinks up to see a young boy standing in front of him. He’s wringing his hands, jumping in place when he notices Jackson’s eyes on him. They’re only a few blocks from school, Jackson having been on his way to see Mark, ignoring the other’s texts of ‘don’t, I look like shit’, and Jackson wonders if this kid literally followed him or is simply going the exact same direction for some reason.

The kid waves at him, saying a soft ‘hi’ then bites his lip.

Jackson decides to play it safe and smiles back, confusion hopefully clear on his face. “Hey, uhm… Who are you?”

“BamBam,” the boy introduces himself, rubbing an anxious finger over the bridge of his nose. “I- uh, well. You know Mark, right?”

Instant distrusts bubbles up and Jackson goes rigid. “What about Mark.”

BamBam smiles tightlipped, then shoots his eyes to both sides before plucking a folded piece of paper out of his Chicago Bulls vest. “He shouldn’t eat the lunch at school anymore,” BamBam whispers, as if afraid the lady across the street walking her labrador is somehow listening in on them. He holds out the paper over to Jackson. “Neither should you to be honest, not if you’re going to hang out with Mark.”

It sounds vaguely like a threat but BamBam’s talking again before Jackson can address it. “Mark knows me, so just. Tell him I told you this, okay. I- I owe him,” his smile is small but genuine. “Mark helped me, so,” he stuffs the paper in Jackson’s hands, “I want to help him. Don’t eat the food, or drink anything.” With that last ominous statement he’s gone, sprinting across the street and weaving into the pedestrians before Jackson can get a word in. It doesn’t happen often, someone leaving him speechless, but BamBam’s vague words seem to have done it.

He looks at he paper with a frown. What in the world is this random kid babbling about?

The mystery only deepens when Jackson unfolds the A4 paper to find a picture spanning about a fourth of the page. He needs a second to translate the Korean writing, then goes hot and cold all over at the implications.

_No fucking way._

It’s laundry softener. He’s staring at a picture of honest to god _laundry softener_. Quarters begin to drop alarmingly fast. Mark’s inability to stop throwing up, the fact BamBam warned him about the food, and the idea of it being related to food-poisoning without anyone else getting sick. But if that’s all true, then someone-

Jackson crumples the paper in his fist, needing a moment to _breathe_ before he shakes out of his skin.

_You don’t know_ , he tells himself, fishing his phone out of his pocket while playing statue in the middle of the sidewalk. _You don’t know this ‘BamBam’. Maybe he’s just messing with you._

But the more he finds, the more he realizes that, depending on the brand and exact composition of the laundry softener, Mark’s symptoms seem to add up perfectly. He puts his phone back in his pocket and stares unseeing at the ground. If this is true, if this is all somehow _true_ , then-

Someone gave it to Mark _on purpose_ , wanted the other to get sick, and felt fucking bold enough to do it twice. He’s already turned around, running back to school before the arrows in his head start circling the reason why.

_Jinyoung._

* * *

His target loiters on school grounds to harass the younger students in their ten-minute break between seventh and eight hour, meaning him and his posse are just walking out the school gates when Jackson comes jogging around the corner. He manages to follow, reeling in his anger for about four turns, then his rage boils over

“Hey!” He calls out and glowers at the five boys that turn. Figures they still walk in formation even outside of school. Their egos must be no joke.

It’s Jinyoung who leers at him, stepping back to become the front of the group. As if it makes any difference to Jackson. He squares his shoulders and walks closer, unleashing his glare.

“Laundry softener,” he spits at Jinyoung once he’s only two steps away. “You fucking _poisoned_ him.”

There’s no immediate denial, or a wholehearted agreement. Jinyoung regards him, then shrugs. “So?” he says as if they’re discussing the possibility of a drizzle in about a week’s time. It draws out something furious from Jackson, arms now positively shaking.

_“So?”_ he repeats. “You put laundry softener in his food, watched him get insanely sick, and all you have is _so?!”_

His anger doesn’t seem to phase Jinyoung, the other staring at Jackson like he’s a mildly interesting bug. Then his eyes grab Jackson’s gaze and his whole persona goes cold.

“Mark deserves it,” he states. “He knows what he’s done. You on the other hand,” he takes a step closer, threat imminent as he smirks. “You’re just a dumb little boy playing around without a _clue_.”

It’s bait and Jackson ignores it, forcing himself to focus on Mark. “You’re going to leave my friend alone,” he grinds out. “Effective _immediately.”_

Jinyoung cocks his head, then gives Jackson the most joyless smile he’s ever seen. “Friend? Is that what he calls himself?” He leans in close, eyes smoldering as they bore into Jackson’s. “That’s funny, because he was my ‘friend’ last year.

_Ignore,_ Jackson tells his thundering heart, glaring into Jinyoung’s eyes. _It’s just bait, ignore, ignore, ignore._

Jinyoung grins, leaning back again. “Ask him if you don’t believe me. That is, if he’ll tell you the truth. Because trust me,” he shakes his head, “Mark has a habit of lying.”

“I don’t believe a word you say,” Jackson spits at him. Five on one is a bit much, but if Jinyoung keeps fucking _talking._

The answer is, yes, the bully does. Only this time, his words aren’t just cruel, they’re threatening.

“Then ask yourself this, _Jackson_. Why would I even care about Mark? Because I don’t just go around feeding a dose of laundry softener to just anyone. You see, I’m not the nicest guy, but I’m honest about that. Mark, on the other hand,” he shakes his head disapprovingly, “Mark makes it a habit to hide. Just ask him about last year and see what happens.” He shows an empty grin. “Food for thought.” With that he turns, waving over his shoulder. “Take care, Jackson!”

They walk away and he doesn’t follow, repeating over and over in his head that Jinyoung’s a manipulative asshole.

Unfortunately, he’s also very good at that.

_Shit._

The Tuan’s only live about ten minutes away, meaning most of the half hour in between talking to Jinyoung and ringing the doorbell is spent anxiously pacing up and down the street and biting his lip until it’s raw. Why the _fuck_ is he letting Jinyoung get to him? Mark’s a good guy, hell a _great guy_ and Jinyoung admitted to being the scum who’s been _poisoning_ him and Jackson just … let him walk away.

_whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy!!!!_

The eventual ringing of the doorbell is utterly anticlimactic, as is Lydia opening and ushering him inside. She explains in low tones that Mark’s still not feeling well and probably isn’t up to long conversations, and that she’s also very sorry for taking Jackson’s bag the other day.

He assures her it’s fine and she points him ahead with a soft smile. “Not too long, okay?” she asks with imploring eyes. Jackson’s nodding before he realizes why.

Then he’s in the living room, walking slowly to the large couch in the middle where this all started. The friendship that is. It seems nicer than saying it all started next to a vomit covered floor and Mark shaking in Jackson’s arm. He rounds the couch and decides to sit on his butt on the floor. Mark is lying on the couch, blanket up to his chin and eyes closed as he once again hides in a much too large black hoodie.

What is Jackson doing here, doubting _Mark?_

“Hey,” he says softly, giving the other a smile when Mark blinks his eyes with a frown. Then his friend’s face falls into a tired grin.

“Jackson, hey.” Mark sounds rough. His voice is wrung-out and painful to listen to. Jackson hates himself more than ever.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. He’s such an idiot. “You need your rest.”

Mark frowns in earnest. “Hey, no. Don’t come- uhm Jackson, don’t just leave. What’s up?”

“Nothing,” he lies. He’s being such a jerk for even coming here. “I just wanted to say hi.”

Mark grins softly, he tips of his canines peeking out. With a grunt he shifts, dragging one arm up to tuck under his head. The other is hidden under the blanket, but if Jackson had to guess, he’d say Mark is still holding his stomach in discomfort.

He’s being really mean for coming here because of _Jinyoung._

“I’m sorry,” he says with a heavy heart. Mark looks confused.

“For what?”

“You need sleep,” Jackson berates himself in his head, already moving to stand up. “I shouldn’t be bothering you.”

The paper crinkles in his pants pocket as he moves, instant guilt flooding his stomach. Mark deserves to know. The other is giving him a confused grin, totally oblivious to _why_ he’s in pain and Jackson _knows._

_Trust._ He tells himself. _You did it last week, so do it now. Mark won’t hurt you._ It’s terrifying to even think about it so Jackson shoves it away.

“Do you know a kid named BamBam?” he starts out of the blue. It yanks Mark out of whatever thoughts he had, wide eyes regarding Jackson with confusion as the latter sinks back down to the floor.

Mark bites his lip. “Yeah. Why?”

“Do you trust him?”

It’s obviously not what Mark was expecting. “I-uhm, yeah. I guess I do. About what, exactly?”

“This,” Jackson says softly, smoothing out the wrinkled paper and handing it to Mark. There’s more confusion than before and Jackson explains with a sigh. “He gave me that after school. Said he owed you. He said-” Mark’s eyes have snapped to his, dread clear on his white face. The other figured it out. “He said not to eat the cafeteria food anymore. Food or drinks.”

Mark’s mouth is working, but nothing comes out. His expression shows such a level of disbelief that Jackson first thinks the other might start yelling at him, but then it dissolves into pain, Mark shakily propping himself up with one arm.

“BamBam said that? I mean, maybe he’s wrong?”

_Pretty sure not._

“I confronted Jinyoung about it,” he croaks, licking his lips and unable to hold Mark’s attentive gaze. “He confessed it was him and- uhm, and _that.”_ He nods at the paper trembling in Mark’s hand. The other looks wrecked for a whole different reason than being sick, gaze intense on Jackson.

Jackson gulps, feeling the disgust rising inside. _Yeah, Jinyoung’s mental_.

Mark’s expression turns dark. “Don’t ever go near Jinyoung again, understand.”

That’s not even _close_ to their biggest problem and Jackson gawks. Is this boy seriously mad because he went to talk to a bully by himself? A demented bully, obviously, but a stupid, teenage bully, nonetheless. Judging by Mark’s tires glower, he is.

“I can handle _Jinyoung_ ,” Jackson spits the name, though Mark seems less than impressed.

“I know the guy, and no, you can’t. This-” he flaps the paper. “This isn’t even _close_ to the worst he can do.”

Which is obviously intended to scare Jackson away, but funnily enough it does the opposite.

“What else has he done to you?” His low voice surprises Mark, hell it even surprises himself, but he’s not taking back the anger. Jinyoung’s mind-games are fresh in his head and Jackson’s starting to think he was right about everything. The boy is a manipulative cunt, and this isn’t the first time he’s gone after Mark. Saying that the thought makes his blood boil doesn’t even come close to how he feels.

Mark’s answer takes a beat too long. “Nothing. He’s just dangerous, okay.”

It’s too vague, too evasive. Jackson makes a split-second decision, one of those fall-into moments where you don’t know whether you’ve done the right thing until you’re smack-dab in the middle of them.

“What happened last year?”

Mark freezes, a combination of guilt and fear causing exhausted lines on his face. “I don’t know-”

“Something happened,” Jackson ignores him, the tips of his fingers pulsing with jitters because he’s angry and apologetic and _what the fuck did Jinyoung do to Mark._

The other has fallen silent. Eyes no longer on Jackson but on the floor. It seems more significant than any words and Jackson scoots closer, tries to reel in his anger. “I’m asking because Jinyoung mentioned it and it made me doubt you and I’m sorry for that, but mostly because you keep talking like he’s the devil and honestly- you might have a point. Mark, he _poisoned_ you. Twice.”

The notion doesn’t seem to bother Mark as much as it does Jackson. He bristles. “What the hell are you trying to hide so bad?!”

“Stop!” Mark yells, eyes furious. “I brought it on myself. It’s my fault. Stay away from Jinyoung! I don’t need- don’t need protection!”

The Korean is a twist, but it’s hardly the worst about what Mark just said. Jinyoung’s words come back to him, Jackson grimacing as he remembers the unhinged glint in his eyes.

_Mark deserves it._

At that point he decides, without a doubt, that Mark is _wrong_. Jinyoung is _wrong._ Whatever happened, whatever it is no one seems willing to tell him but is hanging over this whole poisoning-business like an insidious cloud, Jackson is convinced it was never, not _ever_ , Mark’s fault. Precisely because the boy seems so convinced it _is._

“Jinyoung’s an ass for making you believe that,” he snaps, then jumps up. Mark follows him with wide eyes, struggling to sit up on the couch. It’s obvious how not-okay he is when the action drags a groan out of him, arms shaking with the effort.

Jackson feels sick.

_I let Jinyoung walk. What the hell is wrong with me?_

“Jack, stop.” Mark tells him angrily, but he’s panting from the action of sitting up and his mouth is pulled down by pained lines.

“Jinyoung’s an idiot,” Jackson repeats in a growl. “You’re an idiot and _I’m_ an idiot, because _this-”_ he yanks the paper from a shocked Mark’s hands, holding it up with a glare, “this is _not_ something that gets to be ignored.”

Only Jinyoung made him doubt it all in the face of a possible fight with five, and Mark maybe not telling the truth, which means Jackson’s anger is about so much more than just Mark’s blasé attitude. Jinyoung played him, and from the looks of things, he’s been playing Mark for so much longer.

It squeezes Jackson’s lungs until it’s hard to breathe.

Because Mark’s still being worried about everything _but_ himself.

“Don’t,” his friend forces out. “Jackson, stop. Don’t do anything about Jinyoung, I’m fine.”

“You ended up in a hospital! Twice!”

“I’ll be fine!” Mark yells back, getting properly worked up about the _wrong fucking thing._ “I know what the problem is now, I can handle it! Don’t go after Jinyoung!”

Jackson’s boiling with rage and Mark’s being incessantly stubborn. “What,” he hisses, “so he can poison you again!?”

The words burst out deafeningly loud. “So he doesn’t poison you!”

Jackson flinches back, half a thought on how bloody big this house must be because Lydia still hasn’t come running despite their shouting, while the rest of him is analyzing Mark’s slumped form on the couch, the boy biting his lip with an angry expression. It’s the tell-tale look of someone who just said too much

“You’re worried about me,” Jackson says shakily. “You’re going to sit there and say shit like how you brought it on yourself and then _worry about me?”_

Mark has tears in his eyes as he stubbornly avoids Jackson’s gaze. The other is still sitting on the couch, shaking with how much he wants to no doubt jump up and get in Jackson’s face, but he’s once again holding his midriff with controlled breathing and Mark is still _sick._ It slams into Jackson like a frosty dive, his anger seeping away when he spots the tremors going down Mark’s arms. This whole thing is getting out of hand.

“You need to worry about yourself,” he tells him softly, shoving the prickly fury away. “If you don’t want to tell me what’s going on right now, then fine, and if you need me to stay away from Jinyoung,” he takes a deep breath, already regretting his next words but he needs Mark to stop looking like he’ll pass out. “I’ll do it, _for now.”_ He stresses that last part. “I can’t just drop this, but I shouldn’t’ve,” (why is he such an idiot?) “I shouldn’t’ve done this _now.”_

Not when Mark is obviously taking the second time so much worse than the first, not when he’s fighting off actual _poisonous substances_ some demented teenager at their school saw fit to spike his food with, not when he has other priorities like sleeping and getting better which outrank the Jinyoung issue. For now.

Mark doesn’t respond. He sits stone-faced. Then he draws in his bottom-lip and speaks hollowly. “I’m not the good guy you think I am. I’m not a good guy, period.”

Jackson snorts. “Whatev-”

“I was part of Jinyoung’s gang last year. We were friends.”

Jinyoung’s face is smug in Jackson’s frozen mind. “…what?” he breathes.

“I wasn’t actively bullying people, but I didn’t do much to help either.” Mark continues in the same tone, staring at a certain patch of the couch. “At some point, I tried to go behind Jinyoung’s back. He found out and now we’re not exactly besties anymore.” His voice gains a touch of anger. “So if you’re going to stand there and pretend to be some sort of do-gooder, _don’t._ I’m not a damsel in distress and I _hate it_ when people treat me like one.”

“That-” Jackson needs to scramble his thoughts away from _Jinyoung was fucking right_ to something a little more logical. “You’re wrong,” he eventually manages, trying to spot the lie in Mark’s story. “You’re not like that. You just said-”

“I just said Jinyoung's my fucking problem and no one is going to be doing _anything_ on my behalf!”

It was a long time coming, but finally Lydia's concerned face looks in from the doorway. “What's going on in here? Mark?”

“I'm tired,” Mark tells them both, resolutely lying back on the couch with his eyes closed.

It's a cop-out, and a painful one at that, but Jackson has too much respect for Lydia to keep whatever this was going with her in the room. He gives her a short bow, Mark ignoring him from the couch.

“Thank you for having me,” he tells her as she walks in to check on Mark. She smiles a little confused and he takes it as his cue to leave. It seems he'll have to go back on his word and find some way to dig up what happened between Mark and Jinyoung last year. Because both of them are lying. They have to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DO NOT EVER EAT CLEANING SUPPLIES!! THEY ARE VERY BAD FOR YOU!! (also don't feed them to others. Just don't)
> 
> As a disclaimer, I'm making up the severity of Mark's reaction to this. I have looked up what household substances can cause things like excessive vomiting and stuff, but part of me feels a little scared to use the correct things in this story, meaning I delibarately chose something at random. Mind you, laundry softener will probably still make you throw up, but the extent and severity of the aftermath is different for different supplies. So yes, anyone who knows anything about the poison-capacity of laundry softener, my apologies. I'm going to be taking a lot of liberties because I sort of want this to be half fiction. But still: DO NOT DO THIS AT HOME, EVER!!


	4. Jackson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING!!!  
> Jinyoung's a psycho and we're delving into the hurt part of this story ... the unhinged part, some would say. Vomiting will occur and just, for the love of god NEVER DO THIS, EVER!!!

BamBam is starting to look a little scared, eyes flying from Jackson to the grass they’re sitting on and back up. They’re in a secluded spot, somewhere away from curious eyes and ears so that Jackson can start his investigation in private. He hit the bloody jackpot on the first try, which is both ridiculous and logical because BamBam is the only person to have ever even acknowledged Mark’s existence beyond laughing at him and Jackson can’t quite believe his luck.

He needs another few seconds to get his thoughts under control though, an incessant pounding of _Jinyoungissodead_ slamming into his skull.

“So,” he takes a deep breath, effectively startling BamBam. “You’re saying that when you came here, Mark was a part of Jinyoung’s group?” He receives a nod in confirmation, BamBam staring wide-eyed as Jackson rearranges all the facts one last time. So far, he’s not at all thrilled about what he’s found.

“Okay,” he says to himself, ticking off a finger. “He was in the group, but then he helped you-” another nod and another finger ticked off, “he hid you from Jinyoung and gave you tips on where not to go, and then,” and this is the crucial part as he brings up another finger, “Jinyoung found out about it and _beat Mark up for it.”_

Another final nod, this time accompanied by BamBam’s soft voice. “His friends did the beating. Broke a rib, actually. Mark wasn’t in school for over a week. He still looked bad after.”

“They broke a _rib?!”_ Jackson can’t help his volume, toning it down at BamBam’s flinch. His voice is no less heated as he continues. “How the hell is this guy still coming to school! He’s insane!”

BamBam shrugs, fingers plucking at the grass. “Pretty sure Mark didn’t point him out. Would’ve been his word against Jinyoung’s, and- well,” he shrugs again, face falling. “Jinyoung just always wins.”

Jackson can’t help his incredulous stare, no matter how much this isn’t BamBam’s fault. This whole school is crazy, allowing someone this unhinged to walk around and get away with this shit.

“And now he’s poisoning Mark,” he snaps. BamBam nods a little guiltily, eyes on the ground. Jackson bites his lip, digs his fingers into the grass and earth underneath him, then slowly releases a long breath. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. I’m- actually, I’m grateful you told me.”

BamBam shrugs again, still plucking at the grass. There’s distant laughing from the square on the other side of the school building, some birds flying overhead while the weather stays surprisingly pleasant for September. For the first time in their conversation, BamBam is the one to fill the silence with a question, his eyes shooting up. “Is Mark okay?”

The honest answer would probably be no, but Jackson decides a soft smile is best. BamBam already looks extremely skittish and guilty. “He’ll be alright,” he promises. “Just needs some extra sleep.” Hopefully.

In all honesty, he hasn’t spoken to Mark since yesterday, since their fight that wasn’t a fight and Mark’s sudden insistence of his _not_ being a damsel. The comparison somehow makes Jackson a knight, which, in all fairness, he isn’t even completely rejecting.

BamBam nods quietly, gaze back to the grass. All of a sudden he sighs, shoulders sagging. “Does he hate me?” he pipes up softly, hunching in on himself as if terrified the answer will be a resounding ‘yes’. It’s a mystery where BamBam even gets the notion from, let alone the firm belief, and Jackson just blinks at him, then smiles painfully.

“I doubt it,” he tells him, trying to catch his eyes. “The way Mark told this, he blames himself for everything.”

 _That_ gets BamBam’s attention. “What!” His head snaps all the way up for the first time, wide, dark eyes focused on Jackson. “But he didn’t do anything wrong! He was just trying to help!” He blinks suddenly wet eyes, punching the ground. “I’m the one who just _sat there_ and watched him get beat up. I didn’t- I couldn’t even-” he bites his lip hard, eyes shooting angrily to the side. How many people are going to keep blaming themselves for things that are _not their fault!_

“Stop it,” Jackson tells him, shaking BamBam’s right knee with a firm grip. The boy is sitting cross-legged and gives Jackson a teary stare. “You called for help,” he reminds BamBam sternly. “You made sure someone knew where Mark was and _helped him_ , and you even went out of your way to figure out this whole laundry-softener insanity. BamBam, it’s not your fault. It never was.” He’s going to start his own counseling group soon enough, the you’re-not-a-bad-person-but-you-happen-to-go-to-school-with-a-narcissistic-psychopath group. At the rate this is going, it might even be insanely popular.

After a tense silence BamBam gives him a watery smile, then shrugs one shoulder. “It’s not like I can do much more than that.”

“You don’t have to,” Jackson says with a steel voice. Like hell will he ever let this (what was it again, fourteen-year-old? Yup.) fourteen-year-old fight someone like Jinyoung, let alone the lackeys blindly following their leader like eerily scary ducklings.

No.

Jinyoung is going to get what’s coming to him, but BamBam will not be involved in any fighting. The boy still looks skeptical and Jackson flashes him a tight-lipped smile.

“I’ll figure this out, don’t worry.”

* * *

So, maybe Jackson _doesn’t_ figure it out (because he can’t _find_ Jinyoung after school that Wednesday), and he _does_ worry (because Mark comes back the day after).

“What are doing here?!” he hisses at his friend as he slips next to him in a seat. Mrs Jung is setting up the projector at the front of class and a dozen chatting voices drown out their whispered conversation.

Mark huffs. “I thought school was Korean.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Jackson grouches. The boy next to him still looks pale and tired. It’s a damn miracle his mother even let him go. When Mark stays silent, one of his many talents, Jackson nudges his shoulder.

“Seriously,” his concern leaks into his voice. “Jinyoung’s been feeding you toxins and you just come back like it’s all fine. Like _you’re_ all fine.”

“I am fine,” Mark hisses with a glare, “and don’t talk about that here.”

Jackson raises a challenging eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

Mark turns back to his book. “You know why.” His eyes ever so faintly flick in the direction of Jinyoung, the boy grinning smugly their way before Mrs Jung calls for attention and he turns around.

Yeah, Jackson knows. It just so happens he doesn’t _care_.

* * *

“You have to tell your mom,” Jackson says as a way of introduction, plopping down across from Mark at their usual spot in the cafeteria. His friend shoots him a frustrated look.

“No,” he says, then goes back to sipping his water bottle. He doesn’t have any food out, bought or otherwise. Considering the state from their house and Mark’s clothes being mostly brand, it’s probably not because he can’t afford to buy something _not_ provided by the school.

Oh yeah, Mark’s just peachy.

“How’d you even convince her to let you go,” Jackson prods with a disapproving glare.

Mark pushes his cheek with his tongue, something Jackson has taken to meaning his friend either wants to say something but knows he shouldn’t, or he’s starting to lose his patience. “Not important.”

“Considering she’s sending you back to a place you’re being poisoned at without her knowing about it, I’d say it’s pretty darn important.”

Mark shoots him a withering look. “Drop it.”

“Why,” Jackson punctuates his growl by slamming the table, a few students around jumping at the sudden noise. Mark blinks out of his anger, trepidation rushing in.

“Jack-”

“No, seriously,” Jackson ignores him, having lost his appetite completely. “Why the hell do you think this isn’t important!”

“That’s not-” Mark visibly reels in _something_ , jaw strained and eyes furious. The realization hits Jackson too late and he rolls his eyes. This damn guilt-complex has gone on for much too long.

He gives Mark his dry I’m-so-done-with-you look which he usually reserves for his brother. “Are you seriously still talking about last year? Is this all somehow your way of punishing yourself for that?”

It’s honestly just a random guess, but Mark’s guilty flinch brings bile to the back of his throat. “Seriously?” he croaks. “Mark, that’s-”

Dumb. Dangerous. Stupidly masochistic. Wholly unneeded. _Dangerous._

Of all the reasons Mark could’ve given, using Jinyoung’s sadistic pranks as a way of punishing himself for something he felt he did wrong is probably one of the worst. Mostly because Mark barely did anything wrong in the first place.

_I brought it on myself!_

Shit. He actually believes that.

“Get up,” he tells Mark, strained. He yanks his bag off the table and shoots up himself, rounding the side to grab Mark’s arm. The other looks a mix of shocked and scared.

“What are you doing?”

The arm in his hand is shaking, Mark clearly so very _not okay._ Jackson does his best to keep his tone soft even though he’s never wanted to punch something more than right now. “Trust me,” he says, spotting Mark’s all-encompassing stare search his face. He lets him, the sound of the cafeteria falling away as eventually Mark struggles with something, then sighs.

“Fine.”

It’s good enough.

He drags his friend up and out, through empty hallways and past silent classrooms without a single word. Mark’s steps gain a hint of reluctance, his wrist squirming in Jackson’s hold when they walk out the backdoors. His breath hitches. “Jack, if you’re angry-”

“I’m not,” he huffs, already craning his neck to find- _there._ He grins, turning his steps into a jog. “BamBam!”

The boy is sitting in the same spot as yesterday, head down and quietly eating his lunch. He startles at Jackson’s voice, head snapping up. Oops.

Jackson laughs at him. “Sorry, sorry, got a little excited.” He drags Mark up next to him, then pulls him down to sit. At that point, both BamBam and Mark look like they’re considering just making a run for it. Jackson sighs. Have these guys seriously not spoken since last year?

“Mark,” he grabs his friend’s shoulder receiving a somewhat panicked what-the-hell-are-you-doing look. “Mark, it’s fine. BamBam told me about what happened. Last year.” He turns to BamBam with a plea on his face. “And I think you two should talk.”

As expected, Mark doesn’t. He keeps his head down and shoulders tense. The leaves rustling above them make more sound than him, prompting Jackson to give BamBam another pleading look. The younger seems lost on what to do with it.

_Oh for the love of-_

“He blames himself,” Jackson says exasperated, nodding at Mark. It earns him a glare from said boy, but BamBam’s face goes confused as he glances at Mark.

“But it wasn’t your fault?”

“This is ridiculous,” Mark hisses at Jackson, eyes furious. “Don’t drag BamBam into this.”

“BamBam’s already _in this_ ,” he replies stubbornly in Korean. “And if you’re using him as a demented excuse to let Jinyoung _poison you_ , then I’m damn well not letting that slide!”

“I’m not!”

“Then what _are_ you doing!” Jackson shouts in his face, shaking Mark’s shoulder because his friend isn’t making any sense. The mistake only registers when Mark flinches, a grimace flashing across his face. His right arm shoots up to hold his midriff which is being twisted by Jackson shaking him.

_Wrong move._

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, snatching his hand away. Mark shakes his head, half-curled in on himself and half-glaring at Jackson.

“I’m fine.”

And they’re back to the damn beginning of this conversation, Mark running around in circles while avoiding the main issue. Jackson’s so _sick_ of it, pardon the expression. He levels Mark with a tired look, mentally apologizing to BamBam as the boy is giving them both wide-eyed looks.

“Mark, stop.” My god, he’s basically begging now. “Just talk to BamBam, okay. Just talk this _out._ Whatever it is you think you need to do, I promise you, you don’t.” He gulps. “Will you look at me?”

The leaves rustle above, a flock of birds chirping in the distance. Shouts from the front of the school float their way as Mark keeps staring at the grass. They’re the tensest five seconds of Jackson’s life, but he’s determined to not break them. He needs his friend to start making sense, to tell the truth, to stop carrying all this blame.

“I made the choice,” Mark eventually says, dropping Jackson’s stomach all the way to the earth’s core. “I was in his gang. I messed up. Jinyoung is mad at _me.”_

It’s old news, quite literally the reason they’re sitting here, and Jackson groans. “That’s so not-”

“It’s not about BamBam,” Mark interrupts him, a trickle of fear in his voice. His eyes flick up, finally focusing on Jackson and there’s the strangest apology in them. What the-

“It’s about you,” Mark confesses, biting his lip.

For some reason, that makes sense to BamBam. The boy lets out a soft ‘oh’ and Mark starts glaring at the ground again, blinking wet eyes.

The mood becomes fragile. It’s no longer anywhere near where Jackson can make sense of it. His lips are dry and he licks them, trying to figure out how _anything_ is even close to being about him. He’s been here for less than a month. What exactly could he have even done? That’s not to say it doesn’t hurt. The accusation stings, the whole argument turned around on him like he’s the culprit. If Mark’s to be believed, he apparently is.

“Why,” his voice is flimsy. “What did I do?”

Mark huffs out a wet laugh, swallowing audibly before giving Jackson the softest look he’s ever seen. It gives him hope when Mark smiles at him like that.

“Nothing bad,” the boy promises, but he’s still close to crying. It doesn’t make any sense.

“Then how is this about me?”

“It’s not- not your fault, it’s just…”

“Mark,” he snaps without heat, “you _cannot_ say that and then don’t explain it.”

“I’m trying!” Mark shoves a hand in his hair, visibly frustrated. “Korean’s difficult, okay!”

Oh. To be honest, Jackson forgot about that. But it is true that Mark needs more time to construct his sentences in Korean, backtracking a lot and in general being cautious.

“Then do it in English,” Jackson frowns at him. “Just tell me.”

“BamBam doesn’t speak English, I can’t just-”

“It’s okay,” BamBam pipes up softly, grabbing both their attention. The boy gives Mark a sad smile. “I think I already get it anyway.”

Mark gulps. “You do?”

“Yeah,” now the boy looks guilty. “The second time wasn’t meant for you.”

Mark looks painfully crestfallen at the cryptic and utterly useless comment. “The second time of what!” Jackson wants to shake them both but keeps his fists balled in his lap. “Guys, I need context!”

“This Monday,” Mark sighs, “the second time I got sick. That wasn’t supposed to be me. It was in your fruit juice.” He looks guilty but Jackson just feels hollow.

“What do mean ‘my fruit juice’?”

“I think that’s where they put it in. I mean, I’m not sure, but I remember it tasted a little funny that first time I got sick. I didn’t think anything of it until after, and then I thought food poisoning, but Jinyoung-” he sighs wetly, Jackson growing more and more scared the more he hears. “The way he looked at me, I just got suspicious. But I wasn’t sure until _your_ juice had that same funny taste and I got sick _again._ I just- I drank it to be sure and then I didn’t know how to tell you and _then you_ showed up talking about confronting Jinyoung and-” he clears his throat, looking miserable. His next words are close to being inaudible. “And I knew I had to tell you about Jinyoung and me, but I got scared because you’re the first friend I’ve had in this place and I didn’t want you to hate me. Only you’re on Jinyoung’s radar and you don’t even seem to notice which means you’re in danger and that’s _my fault._ ” His gaze burns when it snaps to Jackson. “Jinyoung tried to make you sick and that’s on _me_ , Jackson.”

He keeps staring, keeps up that burning focus like it’s the only thing he knows how to do, but Jackson’s barely able to process half of what he just learned and eventually croaks out a barely thought-out ‘what?’. Mark snorts wetly, but doesn’t comment further. It gives Jackson time to pick out the most jarring of that entire speech.

“You knew,” he stares incredulously at Mark. “You _knew_ , and you drank it anyway?”

Mark rolls his eyes. “I didn’t know _until_ I drank it. I stole your juice because you were ignoring it and I have a sweet tooth, I didn’t realize something was wrong until I tasted it.”

“Then why did you drink it!”

“Because I needed to be sure!” Mark yells right back. He looks furious despite his tears. “I’m responsible for this!”

 **“Shut up!”** Jackson yells loud enough it startles both Mark and BamBam. He does a quick rewind and realizes it’s not only the sound, but also the Mandarin that got them. It came out without warning, the reaction so fast he couldn’t have done it in any other language.

This time he does grab Mark’s shoulder again, but he makes sure he’s careful. “Don’t ever say that again. This is _not_ on you, it’s on Jinyoung.”

Mark presses his lips into a thin white line and Jackson decides to use that intense stare the other is always so fond off. His voice goes soft without meaning to when he feels a tremble run through Mark. “Yes, you joined Jinyoung’s gang, and yes, that may not have been the smartest move, but Mark, it doesn’t make you evil.” Mark’s jaw is tense enough Jackson fears he might hurt himself, but it only proves he’s hitting the nail on the head. He keeps going. “You didn’t want Jinyoung coming after you and you didn’t have anyone else to turn to, so you did the one thing you could. And when it came down to it, you proved you’re not like that. You helped BamBam. Jinyoung’s the asshole here.”

Mark pulls up his legs to hide his tears in his knees, going so far as to bring up a hand to shield his face from Jackson. He doesn’t make a sound as his shoulders shake.

_God, this guy._

“Not your fault, Mark,” Jackson murmurs as he scoots closer, feeling his own eyes sting with tears as he slings an arm around Mark’s shoulders. He shoots BamBam a grateful smile, the boy nodding in return and wringing his hands as he looks at Mark with a sad face. No one ever blamed the boy but himself, nothing but his own demons shouting into his heads. Demons no doubt created by Jinyoung’s hand.

Okay, so maybe BamBam shared some theories about why Mark did what he did, joining a gang while not wanting to _be_ in said gang, and maybe Jackson worked with those theories and what he learned about Mark’s personality to say what he just did. Maybe it was all one big guess, but judging by this reaction, it was a successful one.

It's not quite over yet as BamBam keeps shooting glances at Mark, then decides on something and scoots forward, cautiously tapping Mark’s leg.

Jackson gives him a ‘be careful’ look, feeling more than hearing how much Mark is holding back, but BamBam gives him a smile before turning back to Mark.

“I never said thank you for the band-aid.” He grins like it’s an inside joke, then it falls to something more genuine. “Really, Mark. Thank you.”

Whatever it means is lost on Jackson, but there’s no bad reaction so he lets it go. In fact, one of Mark’s hands comes out from behind his legs and he holds it out to BamBam. The younger boy looks to Jackson for answers, but this time he can only shrug. He’s got no idea what that means.

With a cautious look, BamBam carefully grabs Mark’s hand, jumping a little when the other clamps on.

For the remainder of the break, Mark doesn’t let go.

* * *

It takes some wheedling, but eventually Jackson convinces Mark to just skip his last period (“You look pasty-white, I swear. You’re either going home or to the nurse’s office.”), mainly because Mark confessed he only came to keep an eye on Jackson. (“You were so damn adamant about confronting Jinyoung,” Mark mumbles. “I was worried.”)

Jackson was less than agreeing about Mark’s horrible decision. Who’s treating who like a damsel now?

In any case, he practically shoves Mark out the door after the sixth hour when his friend stumbles into a wall from exhaustion with a stern directive to get some shut-eye. The other gives him that soft smile he discovered the existence of two hours ago and Jackson sighs.

“You’re impossible,” slips out before he can stop it and Mark grins.

“So you keep saying.”

He leaves after making Jackson promise (for the fourth time, jeez, he _gets it_ ) to stay away from Jinyoung. Not that Jackson doesn’t have fantasies of throwing his fist at the stupidly smug mug of said black-haired boy, but for the sake of Mark’s sanity, he wisely doesn’t mention this. He simply rolls his eyes and promises, _again_ , that he will.

Luckily, Mark doesn’t know him well enough yet to know that he’s lying.

The sky has gotten overcast during the seventh hour, meaning Jackson pulls his hands into his sweater sleeves as he waits just outside the school gate. He’s leaning against the wall, looking casual, but his eyes keep scanning every face that comes out. No one pays attention to him except for a random group of girls who point and giggle before scurrying off. Jackson rolls his eyes. He’s not even wearing his snapback today, it being the usual piece of clothing that garners many stares. Whatever.

It takes another minute before Jinyoung walks out, stance calm and collected as he fiddles with his phone. There’s no gang following him, no ducklings flocking at his back, which means Jackson has but a second warning before two hands clamp down on either arm, yanking them back and up.

_Fuck._

He opens his mouth to yell but Jinyoung’s already in his face, phone held aloft proudly. The image on it robs the words from Jackson’s mouth. It’s Mark. Jackson blinks, anger rushing up so fast it’s dizzying because Mark has a red cheek, is being held by one of Jinyoung’s _other_ ducklings, and is wearing the white, long-sleeved shirt and green jersey from an hour ago. The picture is less than an hour old and Jinyoung is the scum of the earth.

The boy smiles. “I thought so.” He nods his head at the east side of the city. “Just follow me. Quietly. Okay?”

 _No,_ Jackson thinks, glaring ten different holes into Jinyoung’s head and balling his hands into fists so tight he feels his knuckles crack. _You’re a bastard and a psycho and I’m going to beat your stupid face in for what you’ve done!_

But all that comes out is a low growl, the ducklings behind him nudging him into movement. Jinyoung looks pleased when he follows without complaint. “I do appreciate loyalty,” he sighs with a small smile. “I might just come to like you, Jackson.”

The feeling is _not_ mutual.

They really do walk in silence all the way, Jinyoung in front and Jackson squished between Tweedle-dee and Tweedledumb. He loses count of how many times he escapes and beats them all to shit in his head. The only thing keeping him quiet is that damn picture on Jinyoung’s phone.

Find Mark. Beat their asses.

That’s the plan.

They’ve been walking along city streets with less and less of a crowd, eventually turning into an empty alley that leads to a bridge. It sinks in and Jackson can’t help his snort as they walk closer, Jinyoung veering off to go down the bank. His hunch is proven correct.

“Underneath a remote bridge,” he snarks, yanking on the hands holding him but not getting free. He shoots Jinyoung’s carefree back a venomous glare. “Can you be any more cliché!”

Jinyoung smiles as he turns, a pleasant stretching of the lips that only contrasts more with his dead eyes. “I prefer to think of it as sentimental,” he purrs cryptically. With a single nod, he tells the boys behind Jackson to get him on his knees. They’re brutally efficient about it but Jackson can’t bring it within himself to care about this throbbing legs.

He has other priorities.

“Mark!”

His friend is also on his knees, one arm around his stomach and the other keeping him from falling. He’s breathing hard, eyes screwed shut, and it takes a while before he looks up, movements almost sluggish. Mark’s eyes grow wide and scared when he spots him. “Jackson?” he chokes, blinking as if hoping he’s imagining things.

_That’s it._

Jackson yanks his arms again, determined to twist out of the hold, only Jinyoung is faster than expected. The boy rushes him, his foot catching Jackson straight in the stomach.

_Air!_

He can’t breathe, pain spiking and his lungs seizing at the shock. For a second all he can do is gape as he doubles over. High-pitched ringing drowns out Jinyoung’s satisfied laugh as he tries to remember how the function of breathing works when doing it consciously.

It takes too long to get his breath back, too long to realize the strange tugging on his wrists is a big no-no, and by then he’s already tied up. “What the fuck!” he spits at Jinyoung, pulling himself back up even though his midriff protests. His arms are secure behind his back, literal rope now digging into the skin of his wrists.

His plan to beat them all up just became harder.

Jinyoung shrugs at him. “Precaution.” He nods at something behind Jackson, and an arm swings around out of nowhere, putting him in a chokehold. It’s not pressing yet, not cutting off any air or blood-flow, but the threat is real, and Jackson can’t squirm out of it while on his knees with his hands tied. This is becoming a little more than _bad_.

“Mark!” He stops glaring at Jinyoung to find his friend, noting the other is up on his feet, two ducklings behind him to restrain him. He looks even worse from up close, Jackson sure there can’t be more than four meters between them which honestly just makes him feel worse. Mark is _right there_ and Jackson is so fucking useless right now. He does his best to soften his gaze anyway, unwilling to show how scared he is. “Are you okay?”

Jinyoung laughs. “He really got to you, didn’t he?”

_ignoreignoreignoreignore_

He keeps his eyes on Mark, musters the same focus the other always shows him and lets everything else fall away. Mark looks a painful combination of exhausted and guilty. Tears fly off his eyelashes as he blinks, chest stuttering.

“Jack, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

The arm around his neck tightens and he growls, spell broken. _“Get off!”_

“You two are being downright _romantic_ ,” Jinyoung crows, still wearing that same damn smile. It never reaches to his eyes, never does anything to wipe the apathy of his face. Especially now.

Jackson really wants to punch him and the rope digs deeper into his skin as he tries to wrestle out of it. “What the fuck do you want!?”

Jinyoung shrugs as he picks up the bag he discarded on the stone steps. “Nothing much, really.” He glances at Jackson. “I meant what I said, you know. We could be friends.”

“You’re insane,” Jackson spits. The boy behind him tightens his hold for one second, then lets go. Great, now he’s getting warning-chokes.

Jinyoung’s expression doesn’t change as he roots around in his bag. “We’ll see. You might think a little different in a bit.”

That can only spell disaster. Though nothing could have prepared him for the bottle of laundry softener Jinyoung presents with pride. Jackson immediately finds Mark with his eyes and the other looks as white as he imagines his own face to be. He gulps as his breathing speeds up, trying to mask the frantic pounding of his heart when Jinyoung looks at him imploringly.

The damn bully tried to get to him three days ago, only Mark got in the way. Maybe this is Jinyoung making sure that doesn’t happen again.

“What?” Jackson croaks, stomach already roiling as he remembers Mark clinging onto the toilet seat. That’s going to be him in a minute. “You’re going to _poison_ me into being your friend or something? Is that how this gang of yours works?”

“Jinyoung,” Mark pleads, yanking on the arms behind him but not getting anywhere. “Leave Jackson out of this.”

The bully regards them both with a shocked expression, then hides his laugh behind his hand. “Jinyoung,” he mimics Mark with a high voice, “leave Jackson out of it, pretty please.” He chuckles some more even though there’s literally _nothing_ to laugh about. Supposedly you need to be a psychopath for that. Or a psychopath’s adopted duckling, whatever.

“You’re sick,” Jackson spits at him. The Jinyoung in his head is already gloating about ‘you’re about to be’ when the real one shakes his head and opens the bottle. He fills the cap generously as he says, as if speaking to particularly thick children.

“Of course, it’s not for Jackson.” He holds out the cap to Mark with an unhinged glint in his eye. “It’s for you.”

Jackson wasn’t scared before. He wasn’t even _close_. Not like the mind-numbing, stomach-dropping, spine-chilling fear that locks up every single muscle in his body. “No,” he breathes, but he’s not looking at Jinyoung. “Mark, no!”

Because Mark is staring at the cap like it might be actual poison, but he’s also flicking his gaze from it to Jackson and back. There’s painful doubt on his face as he whispers. “And if I don’t?”

“Mark!” Jackson grinds his teeth, the rope not giving and the arm not slacking and _why_ didn’t he just beat Jinyoung up and _forced_ him to say where Mark was. Why did he let any of this happen?!

“The rules are simple,” Jinyoung smiles, still holding the cap aloft. “Either you drink it, or Jackson does. Your choice.”

Mark bites his lip so hard it goes stark white, an apology filled gaze landing on Jackson. He doesn’t know what that means. Is he sorry about giving it to Jackson? Is he sorry about _not_ giving it to Jackson? It better be the first one.

“Mark, just don’t,” he tells him anyway, just in case his stupid, _impossible_ friend gets any funny ideas. “I’m okay, I can take it.”

He doesn’t say how Mark _can’t_. How he’s been sick twice already, how the last time was three days ago and his body needs time to recover, damnit! This isn’t about being a damsel or a knight or any of that crap, it’s simple facts. Jackson’s system will be able to handle this shot of fucking poison a lot better than Mark’s. It won’t be good by any stretch of the word, and he’s shaking just thinking about it, but it’s the only logical conclusion.

“Just let him,” he tells Mark again, trying to take away the guilt and sadness on his friend’s face as Mark goes through the same thought process. “Mark, it’s okay, I’ll be okay. I’ll drink it.”

Jinyoung looks much too pleased as he turns to Jackson. “I suppose you will.”

He takes one step with that predatory smile and Jackson loses all his confidence. He’s still convinced this is the best option considering there’s no one around to call for help, still sure he’s doing the right thing, but he can’t deny the fear hollowing out his gut. He doesn’t want to do this _at all._

“Wait!” Mark’s voice rings out, shocking Jinyoung even more than it does Jackson which is truly saying something. His friend better not-

“Give it to me,” Mark says with a tremble in his voice.

Jackson growls. _Impossible_. “Don’t! Don’t you dare!”

The other ignores him, eyes on Jinyoung. “Give it to me.”

Jinyoung seems strangely reluctant. “Really?” He holds up the cap for Mark to take, nodding at the boy behind him to release his arm. “You’ll really drink this? Jackson’s right there. He said himself he’s okay with it.”

Not the words Jackson would choose considering they’re being forced by a madman (madteenager, madboy, whatever), but he sort of finds himself agreeing as he strains against the arm around his neck. “Mark!” he says the name as a warning and finally his friend looks at him. It’s still the same face as before, still filled with guilty lines and an apology in his wide eyes, but now Jackson understands that was never because Mark was considering making Jackson do it.

The fight leaves him in one big, disbelieving rush when Mark grabs the cap with a shaking hand. Jinyoung looks just as bewildered, if not more, but Jackson finds the bully about as interesting as the bushes off to the side.

Mark was apologizing for making Jackson _watch_.

“Don’t,” he breathes, trying to convey by the force of his stare why this is the worst idea _ever._ “Mark, you can’t- _Mark!”_

Mark shuts his eyes and throws his head back, downing it in one go.

That’s when the clock starts ticking in Jackson’s head. He almost chokes himself with how much he’s now struggling, the boy behind him grunting when their heads collide. The pain is sharp and sudden at the back of Jackson’s head but he _doesn’t care_.

“Get off me!” he rages. “Don’t you understand how fucking dangerous this is!”

But they don’t, or they don’t care, because next thing Jinyoung is laughing, loud and surprised. It snaps Jackson’s attention back to Mark, the only reason Jinyoung would be having fun.

The bully is _insane_.

Mark is on his knees, the ducklings that were restraining him standing behind him somewhat uselessly. There’s no longer any need to hold Mark in place as he sits with one hand on his stomach and the other white-knuckled on his thigh to keep him up. He’s breathing hard, head hanging and the stupid cap rolling in place in front of him.

Almost as if in slow-motion, Jinyoung picks it up.

_No._

The boy keeps chuckling, once again filling the cap to the brim.

_No way._

He glances at Jackson with a little smile, then crouches beside Mark and holds out the cap again.

Jackson doesn’t think he’s still breathing, muscles so tight he’s sure they’ll snap. The world quite possibly stops spinning, not even the sound of birds making it down to their demented bubble.

_Pleasenopleasenopleasenopleasenopleaseno_

Jinyoung holds the cap right under Mark’s face, making sure the other boy can see. “You, or Jackson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to leave a random endnote or AO3 somehow plops the endnotes from chapter 1 in here ... I am annoyed.
> 
> While I'm here ... what do you think?? *sweatdrops* ...


	5. Jackson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all of you who are wondering: Mark is my bias ... yeah. Like I said, I hurt what I love ...
> 
> On with the story!!
> 
> (and the torture)

_Jinyoung holds the cap right under Mark’s face, making sure the other boy can see. “You, or Jackson.”_

Jackson can’t breathe.

It’s like an explosion in his head, like an _implosion_ in his chest. Mark’s shoulders sag at Jinyoung’s words, his head coming up just enough to look at Jackson with the most desolate eyes. His gaze slides to Jinyoung as he begs. “Please, don’t.”

Jackson _snaps._

He throws his head back with a scream, expecting the sharp pain this time. He yanks himself out of the, now loose hold and shoots up, but then a knee catches him in the side and he flinches. It leaves an opening for someone to trip him up. The foot catches him on the shin, hard, and he staggers. Then a fist sinks into his gut.

_Pain._

It engulfs him, whites out the world for a second as air becomes a foreign concept, then he’s back on his knees. His head throbs, as does his shin, and his midriff stretches painfully with every breath but he’s _breathing_. A fist catches him on the cheek and his head snaps sideways. The world sways.

_Was that necessary!_

He tastes blood when he turns back, his lower lip stinging and throbbing. Add that to the list of things hurting.

“Stay still!” Jinyoung hisses from above as Jackson regains the ability to see. He glares at the boy.

**“Fuck you!”**

It earns him a painful slap to the face, cheek pulsing in time with his heart.

“Last chance!” Jinyoung yells before Jackson can spit blood in his face. The bully turns sharply to Mark. “You or Jackson.”

_Aw, shit._

During Jackson’s epic fail, Mark threw up. He’s shaking all over, leaning forward on his left arm and with a puddle of strangely blue-tinted vomit in front of him. Jinyoung still crouches near him, wrinkling his nose while holding out the cap.

“Stop,” Jackson says in a rough voice, hands once again like vices on his arms. He frantically searches for the duckling’s faces he can see but doesn’t catch any sympathy. His heart breaks. “Guys, stop! You don’t understand, this is dangerous!” No one listens, at least they don’t show it.

Mark’s hand reaches out a second time, trembling so much some of the liquid sloshes over the edge of the cap. He doesn’t look at Jackson this time, doesn’t show his face beyond lifting his head to throw the poison back before sagging in place again.

His friend has resigned himself to his fate, though Jackson feels he’s the only one who understands what that _means_.

“You’re killing him!” he screams, voice loud and high from desperation. “You’re literally feeding him poison, you bastards, _you’re killing him!”_

“Shut up!” Jinyoung screams back, face in a snarl. It’s more emotion than Jackson’s ever seen on him. “He’s not gonna die, he’s gonna _stop.”_

_What?_

Jinyoung angrily grabs the bottle he probably put down so he could hit Jackson in the face, then fills the cap again, blue spilling over his fingers in his haste. “You or him, _Mark,”_ he snarls. “Make the _fucking choice!”_

The quarter takes ages to drop, Jackson staring wide-eyed at Jinyoung’s furious face before he makes the connections. The bully _doesn’t_ want Mark to drink it. His surprise when Mark grabbed the cap the first time comes back to him and Jackson gasps out loud, staring wide-eyed at Jinyoung.

“You thought he was going to pick me…”

“He will,” Jinyoung snarls, a hand shooting out to grab Mark’s neck. He shakes him. “You wi- fuck!”

The second round of blue-colored vomit comes out, Mark retching and groaning as he barely keeps himself from falling into it.

_This is bad. This is so bad._

“Jinyoung, he’s not going to do that,” Jackson gasps with a chilling certainty. As much as he may want to, as much as he literally begs the gods to just make Mark _stop_ , he knows the other won’t. Because Mark jeopardized his safe place in Jinyoung’s gang for BamBam, he drank the entirety of Jackson’s juice, and he came to school while feeling sick because he was worried about Jackson.

“Yes, he will,” Jinyoung’s gaze is deranged. He grabs the back of Mark’s jersey and yanks him up into a sitting position, Mark groaning and his head lolling. He looks like death.

“Jinyoung, stop,” Jackson begs.

The boy ignores him. “Choose, Mark! Choose _Jackson!_ I know you want to! I know you’re just pretending! You’re a disloyal piece of shit, now choose!”

The hands holding Jackson tighten as he leans forward. Panic swirls in his belly, almost to the point of nauseating because Jinyoung doesn’t get it.

“He’s not going to choose me! Jinyoung, stop, you’re killing him!” He yanks on his arms again, trying to crane his head so as to look behind him. “Guys please, this is too much!” There’s a flicker of doubt on the face of the boy standing behind him and he latches onto it. “Mark isn’t like that! He’s not going to do that!”

There’s more retching and for a heart-stopping second Jackson’s convinced Mark’s actually trying to kill himself. But the cap is still full and in Jinyoung’s hand, the boy no longer holding Mark who’s leaning down and hacking up bile.

“Stop,” he says to anyone who will listen, voice getting more panicked by the second. “Stop, guys please, stop!”

But Jinyoung is too far gone and his ducklings are no longer ducklings. They’re slaves, heads turned away but rooted to the spot, much too afraid of Jinyoung to do anything about it. Perhaps they’re assholes who like to pick on people, perhaps they saw an opportunity to climb up the school’s picking order and took it, but Jackson’s sure they can’t all be this fucking stone-cold. “You’ll all be murderers!” he tries desperately, but Jinyoung laughs it away, turning to him with a furious sneer.

“This isn’t going to kill him,” he spits.

Whether they truly believe him, or simply want to, the guys Jackson can see relax minimally. This whole situation is spiraling out of control, so much worse than Jackson feared. The rope around his wrists is tight and cuts deep enough to draw blood but he can’t snap it or get out of it. The two boys behind him are determined not to let him go and Mark is _never_ going to do what Jinyoung wants.

_Help. Oh god, someone, help._

It’s futile hope, proven by Jinyoung once again lifting Mark up by the back of his neck. At this point Jackson isn’t even sure Mark’s all there anymore. The boy had already looked bad after the sixth hour, now he seems fit to spend a very long night in the ICU.

Helplessness it not something Jackson is very familiar with, but it slams into his chest with about as much force as the earlier punch when Mark slowly lifts his head to look at Jinyoung. Whatever passes between them, it only serves to piss Jinyoung off more. “Fine,” he snarls. “If you want it, then _here.”_

He puts the cap to Mark’s lips, his hand now grabbing Mark’s head.

No matter how much Jackson screams, how much he thrashes until the hands eventually push him down to lie on his stomach, a knee digging into his back, no matter how much he begs for someone, _anyone_ to hear him, Mark still opens his mouth.

The clock in Jackson’s head stops ticking, a terrified scream punching out. _“Mark!”_

How much is too much?

Jinyoung slaps a hand over Mark’s mouth when the latter shudders in place. “Swallow,” he hisses, and it would be funny if the situation wasn’t so damn terrifying.

Tears scorch Jackson’s throat, blurring his vision because Mark is so obviously struggling and in _pain_ while Jinyoung-

“Please!” Jackson can’t do anything but beg, can’t do anything but dig the ropes deeper into his wrists without a single fucking care about the raw pain it’s causing. He’s useless and helpless and was convinced he could be so much more.

He can’t.

“Jinyoung, stop,” he pleads. All he has left is begging, hoping the psychopath will snap out of it before Mark truly goes too far.

_Has he already? How much is too much?_

Three, Jackson decides. Three is too much.

Jinyoung leans back with a shocked expression, hand falling away from Mark’s face because the other honest to god managed to get the poison down _again_ , only this time it takes less than two seconds before it comes back up again.

Jinyoung hisses in derision as he flinches back from the splatter. There’s a tiny stone digging into Jackson’s cheek but he still shifts his head to try and get a better view.

Mark doesn’t stop.

He holds himself up with one shaking arm, the other wrapped tight around his stomach. The painful hacking and retching is punctuated by heaving breaths, but it seems to go on a loop.

“Stop, stop, stop,” Jackson finds himself whispering, eyes trained solely on Mark. He’s not even sure what he’s talking about anymore. Especially when Jinyoung snatches the cap from the ground again.

_“Stop!”_ Jackson screeches. Blood runs down his wrists and the knee on his back presses the air out of his lungs. He still fights. “You have to stop, you’re killing him!”

“What the actual fuck?”

The voice is new. It’s new and glorious and Jackson cries when he hears it.

“Help!” he writhes on the ground, no longer caring he’s making the throbbing _everywhere_ worse. “Please, call an ambulance!”

Jinyoung snaps to attention from where he’d been filling the cap a fourth time.

_Fucking four._

An unfamiliar boy comes jogging down the bank away from Jackson. His eyes settle on Jinyoung, then on Jackson, finally on Mark and he recoils.

The boy looks positively furious. “Jinyoung, what the fuck did you do!”

The retching finally stops. Mark sways in place, groaning and gasping as three proves to be too much (toomuchtoomuchtoomuch) and he crumples on his side.

“An ambulance!” Jackson screeches when more new boys follow the first. “Please! Call an ambulance!”

“Shut up!” Jinyoung yells just as loud, then turns back to the new kid. “Get lost, JB.”

But Jackson can’t care less about threats and glares and the knee digging into his back. He heaves himself up as much as he can when he spots a familiar face, initial surprise quickly turning into relief because it’s BamBam peeking out from behind JB.

BamBam knows.

“BamBam!” Jackson catches his eye. “He made Mark drink it raw! Please!”

The evidence is all laid out. Mark surrounded by blue vomit-spots and Jinyoung still holding the damn bottle. BamBam blanches, tugging JB’s sleeve. The black-haired boy doesn’t even look at BamBam before he turns to another kid behind him.

“Youngjae, call an ambulance.”

It all happens at once.

Jinyoung screams, throwing the bottle down with a splash and blue liquid goes flying onto the stone steps. The ducklings react to his anger while JB’s already in Jinyoung’s face. Air rushes into Jackson’s lungs as the knee disappears from his back, the two assholes keeping him down joining the brawl that broke out on the other side.

Jinyoung and the black-haired JB seem to be the center, even BamBam participating as he brandishes a heavy stick.

It’s all satisfying and miraculous but eventually a moot point because Mark hasn’t gotten up from where he crumpled near the edge of the fight.

_Three is too much._

“Mark!” He sways as he scrambles up, tied hands screwing with his balance. “Mark!” But the other doesn’t respond.

A duckling staggers into reach with a cry when a brown-haired boy sporting some serious _arms_ crunches a fist into his nose. It’s one of the boys who’d been holding Mark at the beginning, one of the jerks who simply stood by and watched as Jinyoung poured poison down his friend’s throat.

With a chilling satisfaction, Jackson kicks at the back of his knees, watching how the boy slips in the spilled laundry softener and lands on his hip with a muffled cry. It’s what he _deserves_.

The brown-haired boy flashes him a grin, then hops over the downed duckling and whips out a pocketknife. Jackson doesn’t find it in himself to flinch, eyes once again back on Mark. “My friend needs help,” he speaks hollowly. Because three is too much.

“Ambulance is coming,” he’s assured from behind as the rope around his wrists starts to loosen. “Damn, kid. You really messed yourself up.”

“Don’t care,” Jackson chokes, brimming with both rage and sickening worry the longer Mark doesn’t do anything but shudder on the stones. His friend looks to be lightyears away, body half-curled in and arms holding onto his midriff like he’s about to fall apart.

_Three is too much._

The ropes fall away and the boy behind him sighs. “Stay with your friend, okay? We got this.”

Clearly, because three ducklings are already down, the fourth being pummeled by a surprisingly feisty BamBam and the aforementioned Youngjae. The issue of Jinyoung is being handled spectacularly well by a furious looking JB, which brings a sudden stab of jealousy because Jackson wants to be the one to break Jinyoung’s nose. To break his _jaw_ and his _hands_ for ever forcing Mark into _anything._

Mark.

It takes no more than five steps before he’s kneeling next to his friend. The sounds of fighting slowly die out behind him, probably because the boy with the pocketknife joined again, meaning it’s easier to hear the labored breathing, to catch the hitches in Mark’s breath and spot the tears squeezing out of his eyes every time he blinks.

Because three is too much.

“I’m sorry,” Jackson breathes. All he can smell is the sharp tang of vomit from this close, mingling with the conflicting idea of freshly washed sheets. His own reflux kicks in and bile burns his throat. Swallowing it down makes him queasy all over because if this is already uncomfortable for him, then how much worse must Mark feel.

He cleans his hands on his jeans before carding his fingers through Mark’s hair. He doesn’t want to get his blood on him. “It’s over,” he promises with a rough voice when Mark’s eyes begin to focus on him. “Ambulance is coming, okay. It’s over.” He knows he shouldn’t be crying now, shouldn’t be sniffling and blinking away tears when Mark’s the one looking pale and sweaty and downright awful, but he keeps seeing the other throw back those hits, keeps hearing the ‘please, don’t’ as Jinyoung wouldn’t stop giving him more. “I’m sorry,” he says again, Mark’s hair wet and coarse from whatever products he uses. “I’m so sorry.”

Mark tries to turn into the ground as his body spasms, a shaky groan following the bile leaking down his cheek onto the stone tiles and grass.

Jackson can’t just _watch_ this. “Come here,” he chokes out, furiously fighting his tears. He turns and scoots next to Mark, then lifts his friend’s head onto his thigh.

“I don’t wanna barf on you,” Mark whispers miserably.

Jackson simply goes back to carding fingers through Mark’s hair, only now noticing the fighting has stopped completely. The bullies are nowhere in sight and the boys that came to help are standing a little ways away, looking faintly pale and disgusted. “I don’t care,” Jackson says loud enough for them to hear, daring them to comment.

They don’t.

The one identified as JB turns to BamBam. He’s sporting a split lip, making Jackson wonder if Jinyoung has a knack for doing that to people much like his knack for plain _torture_. He wouldn’t be surprised. Not anymore.

The boys begin a whispered conversation. JB looks angry, but his face goes worried when he glances over. It’s enough to make Jackson _not_ focus on them. They don’t seem to be a threat. The boy shivering on his lap is much more important and he squeezes Mark’s shoulder carefully with his free hand. “It’s okay,” he parrots again. There’s nothing else to say at this point, but it still makes him feel stupid. Mark’s head tilts and Jackson leans forward to help the boy catch his eye. It’s not the laser-focused stare he’s used to, but Mark clearly makes an effort.

“I’m sorry,” Mark whispers.

Jackson almost bites his tongue while forcing the scream down. “Stop it,” he croaks. “Just stop, okay? You don’t- you just-” The tears are back and by god he’s a mess right now. They’re _both_ messes and it’s no one’s fault but Jinyoung’s. The words to express this get jumbled up on Jackson’s tongue, too much Korean and splashes of English while his mother’s Mandarin sooths the frayed nerves exposed to live wires.

There’s nothing else coming from Mark, nothing but groans and shivers. He’s done talking. Considering the amount of shit that burned his throat, up and down, Jackson’s less than surprised.

In a spur of the moment, Jackson puts his hand on one of Mark’s, the boy still holding his sides like he’s breaking, and the other latches on in a heartbeat.

“Jackson?” BamBam’s nervous voice makes him look up, seeing all four- wait. He does a double take, blinking when he spots the fifth boy, a little taller than BamBam but still baby-faced and sporting a red cheek. Did this kid seriously fight as well?

BamBam kneels down, anxious eyes on Mark. “Is he- How is he?” He’s followed by JB, the black-haired boy once again frowning as he crouches next to BamBam, a cautious eye on Mark.

“What happened?”

Where does he even _begin?_

“Is the ambulance coming?” he croaks in general, eyes flying over all the boys and seeing the one with the pocketknife and the one who’d been fighting with BamBam nod.

Mark groans in his lap, the hand he’s holding shaking painfully.

_Three is too much._

The boys shuffle in place, looking awkward and sympathetic at the same time. Their glances at Mark, though not meant to be harmful, suddenly fill Jackson with a jittery protection. His friend can’t tell them to stop, to look away, to _not_ witness one of his weakest moments which, knowing Mark, probably only adds to his discomfort.

“Can you give him some space,” he snaps, tightening his hold.

They look bewildered at his anger. To be fair, so is he, but the adrenaline is ebbing out of his system, the immense fear of _JinyoungiskillingMark_ slowly waning while being replaced with a pounding beat of _protect_. Because the boy next to him feels weak and broken, sounds even worse, and Jackson’s almost afraid to look at him. It’s not Mark, but it also is, and Jackson’s finally no longer tied up but he’s still utterly useless to help his friend.

But he can do _this._

BamBam looks at him with wide eyes. “Jackson-”

“Staring at him isn’t helping!” He bursts out, something close to panic in his voice and fast breathing. _Calm down_ , he tells himself. _They’re helping. Mark’s safe._

Only he’s not safe. He’s groaning and shivering, sometimes shaking as his insides no doubt hurt from all the chemicals fucking up his system even more than it already was. Why the _fuck_ did Mark do this?

JB is the one to wave the others off. “Give us a minute, okay?”

Even BamBam leaves, biting his lip, with a last concerned look at Mark. Not that Jackson can blame him. He’s breathing hard for no reason but the emotions restricting his airways, JB focusing his dark and intense eyes on him.

“You need to calm down,” he states.

Probably.

“I’m fine,” Jackson grinds out, wiping his hands on his pants again and for the first time wincing at the sting on his wrists. Adrenaline is good at blocking out pain it seems.

“Seriously,” JB scoots closer, never letting his eyes leave Jackson’s face. “You’re breathing too fast and you look like you got hit. Did you hit your head?”

Jackson glares at him. “No, and I’m really _not_ who you should be worrying about!” Can this guy not see Mark breaking down in an almost literal sense in Jackson’s lap? Is he _that much_ of an asshole?!

It never becomes clear because Mark’s spasming in the next second, hand tightening painfully around Jackson’s as he coughs bile onto both the tiles and Jackson’s jeans. He’s groaning afterwards, tears squeezing out of his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Jackson tries to say calmly, but even he hears his voice going up in panic. “Mark, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

Mark’s eyes stay closed in his pasty face, body shuddering. “… _stop,”_ he croaks out in a voice that’s barely his own, _“please…”_

Mark can’t even hear him anymore, can he?

The tears come unbidden as Jackson glares at the patch of murky blue splattered on the stone steps, swallowing down more bile. “Fuck that asshole,” he hisses, then snaps his eyes to JB. “I hope you fucking broke him.”

“His nose, yeah,” JB says bewildered. His eyes once again shoot to Mark, a sense of urgency trickling in. “Did he seriously make him drink that stuff?”

What? The blue vomit and delirious teen aren’t enough of a clue?

“Yes,” he grates, more tears coming out and he’s stopped blinking them away. “Him or me. And Mark-” he swallows, holding Mark’s hand as if his mere presence can offer _any_ kind of comfort. “Mark wouldn’t choose me.”

JB’s glare snaps to the stone, sharp enough to cut steel. “Damnit, Jinyoung.”

“Don’t tell me you _know_ that psychotic waste of space!”

“He’s not a friend,” JB snaps, eyes flying up again. “He’s basically the opposite, but I guess you could say I know him. We used to go to primary school together. Different high school, though.”

Which, duh, because Jackson has never seen any of these boys before and there’s a different emblem on their white shirts. It makes him pause in his head, a thought popping up he probably should have had ages ago.

“Then why are you even here?”

For the first time since he’s seen him, JB’s face goes soft, a hint of a smile making him three years younger. “BamBam,” he says fond.

The young boy stands next to the rest and out of earshot, eyes still shooting to Mark every now and again. Jackson can’t make the connection. What about BamBam? His confusion clearly shows on his face and JB explains.

“He’s friends with my little brother, Yugyeom.” He points at the young, blond-haired boy Jackson still can’t believe was in this fight. “They met a few weeks ago. He’s been coming over a lot. Nice kid. Anyway, he was all nervous today, kept talking about how a friend of his might be in trouble and he didn’t know what to do. Long story short, he told me about what Jinyoung’s been up to.” His face darkens, jaw tensing as he pushes out. “I never thought even _Jinyoung_ would go this far.”

Jackson’s mouth is dry, tongue stalling before he can get the words out. “Thank you.”

JB looks surprised and Jackson tries to give him a smile, but his face stretches in a strange way and he’s not sure how well he succeeds.

“I don’t think Jinyoung would’ve stopped if you hadn’t shown up,” he confesses. The shiver that runs through him at the realization has JB carefully grabbing his shoulder, as if Jackson is in need of the comfort. He gives the boy a nod, thoughts consumed with worst case scenarios, with Jinyoung filling a fourth cap and Mark shivering on the ground. His voice comes out small and almost soundless. “I don’t think he would have stopped.”

The thing is, he’s not sure who he’s talking about.

Mark’s still holding his hand, the boy at least conscious enough to do that and it’s the only reason why Jackson isn’t screaming, while JB holds his shoulder.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get here sooner,” JB says softly. “BamBam said Jinyoung grabbed you at school and probably took you here, at least it’s the only place he could think of. But Youngjae lives farther away and it was honestly just luck Daehyun was with him,” he grimaces. “I’m sorry, Jackson.”

“It’s okay,” is all he can say as he holds Mark like a lifeline while unable to stop carding his fingers through the boy’s hair. His wrists pulse in earnest now, a dull throb in his stomach area. JB’s hand falls away from his shoulder and Jackson tries the smile again.

It still doesn’t feel right.


	6. Jackson

Hospitals are all different and yet precisely the same. They’re big, too warm, and consist of white walls and strange colors trying to break through the perpetual blankness. The result is a forced cheerfulness desperately attempting to cover up a raw sadness.

Jackson’s veering towards the latter end of that statement, rubbing anxious fingers over his bandaged wrists as he sits in a chair that does its job without any comfort. It’s the perfect summary of life inside a hospital. It’s all similar to the outside, all the same functions, but it never works quite the same. There’s always something off, different, _wrong._

It's also quite possible that Jackson’s the one that’s wrong. His existence outside was always very much that of a sixteen-year-old who knew where he was going. He controlled life, not the other way around. He worked hard and fought harder to be the best he could be. Which all boiled down to a glorious pile of laugh-in-your-face _failure_. The world saw his confidence and spirit and decided to cut of his legs at the knee and watch him bleed.

He’s not ever, so long as he’ll live, going to forget Mark’s pained face as he choked down poison that was meant for Jackson. As all of Jackson’s boasting and reassurances amounted to _nothing_.

The worst part of it all? The police are milling around near the back of the waiting room, two officers shifting and murmuring as if they’re not turning everyone’s heads, because Mark’s mother was called as they loaded him into the ambulance and she should be here any minute.

Any minu-

Lydia Tuan marches into the hospital like it owes her something, face set and eyes burning. She’s almost a head shorter than Jackson, but she towers over the receptionist regardless. “Mark Tuan, my son. Where is he.”

The police catch her before she makes the poor man have a conniption, carefully telling her ‘your son ingested a dangerous amount of detergent’. Her face pales, eyes disbelieving, and Jackson shoots up.

They keep saying that. ‘Mark ingested’. Like he sat down for tea but decided to kill himself instead. It’s how it sounds, why Lydia stammers out multiple renditions of no.

“Please, ma’am, if you could come with us,” the female officer says gently. “We’d like to ask you a few-”

“Jinyoung forced him.” Jackson interrupts them, cringing as Lydia turns the full power of her stare on him. The woman looks both broken and fierce, a strange combination only mothers seem to pull off.

“Jackson?” she breaths, then her eyes focus on his wrists. “Oh my goodness, what happened?” She turns back to the police, steel in her voice. “Where is my son!”

People are beginning to stare and whisper, the police looking sternly at Jackson.

“We need to speak to Miss Tuan alone, Jackson.”

They told him that when he asked to wait for her. They told him he could, so long as he listened. It’s just, they’re saying it wrong. Jackson doesn’t want to go back on his word, doesn’t want to challenge their authority, but they’re saying it _wrong._

Everything inside this place is wrong, including Jackson.

“I want to see my son,” Lydia snaps. “Now!”

“We understand, but he’s still being checked by the doctor.”

“He’s _my son!”_ She whirls on Jackson before the police can get another word in, both officers looking exceedingly exasperated and throwing apologetic glances at the other people.

Jackson _doesn’t care_. He’s been going numb for a while.

Lydia focuses on him for reasons beyond his understanding and demands. “What happened.”

“He was protecting me,” Jackson tells the truth that’s eating him up. The police try to interject but Lydia ignores them. Her eyes remind Jackson of Mark, of the way the other looks while peeling away all the different layers until he gets to your core. It drags the words out before he realizes they were on the tip of his tongue.

“Jinyoung’s been spiking Mark’s food with laundry softener,” he hiccups and Lydia pales. “That’s why he kept getting sick, why he kept throwing up, and we found out about it but Mark didn’t want to confront Jinyoung, he didn’t- but I _did_ and- there’s this bridge, and when we got there-” his story is losing coherency, the words tumbling together as he tries to breath around the tears clogging his throat. Lydia puts a careful hand on his arm.

“Jackson, it’s okay. Please, tell me.”

He’s trying. The officers have given up on trying to stop him, probably something to do with Lydia or possibly the English, and Jackson breaks.

“I’m so sorry!” he gasps, using the bandages on his wrists as convenient tear-absorbers. “Jinyoung made Mark drink laundry softener ‘cause he said that if he didn’t, then he’d make me do it. Mark was protecting _me.”_ When it doesn’t even make the tiniest bit of sense, when they’ve only known each other for not even two weeks, when Mark shouldn’t have even been in school that day except that he was worried. “I’m sorry,” he hiccups one last time, trying to maintain the eye-contact she deserves despite everything blurring around him.

Lydia is frightfully pale as she steps back, her arm falling away from Jackson. “My son,” she whispers, then her voice gains volume. “Where is Mark!”

A hush falls over the waiting room at her outburst until the policewoman sighs. “Please, come with us, Miss Tuan.” She shoots a look at Jackson. “Wait _here.”_

He does. He stays in the same spot, rooted to the floor while this whole afternoon plays on a loop in his head. No one comes up to talk to him. No one even asks him to move. Hospitals are always a little wrong and Jackson’s a little wrong now too. He fits right in.

It takes time before the police come back. How much, Jackson doesn’t know. They usher him out and into the car, then drop him off at his house. The conversation with his guardian (a great-uncle from his mother’s side he barely knows) takes only a minute, and the man leaves him alone after that. Whether that’s good or bad, Jackson doesn’t know either.

All he knows is that he’s tired. He’s exhausted.

When he crawls into bed he’s reminded he’s still wearing clothes smelling faintly of stomach acid and something fresh, but lethargy sets in before he can wonder what to do about it. Bringing out his phone to call his family is done on automatic, and then he’s staring at his own reflection as he holds up the video-call in front of his face.

He probably looks like shit.

True enough, his mother is instantly worried when she picks up, her joyful ‘Gaga’ turning into a patented frown. Her voice comes out of the tiny speakers and wraps around him like an invisible blanket, which only serves to make his homesickness spike to dizzying heights.

He’s crying before she finishes her question.

**“What happened?”**

* * *

Too much.

Too much happened. The police come by on Saturday morning and take his statement. They sit silently in the living room as Jackson recounts it all in painful detail, as he watches Mark lose the battle with himself over and over again and _still_ reach for that damn cap.

Mark kept protecting him.

A few hours after they leave, when Jackson finds himself wandering through the house, from the couch to his bed to the kitchen, without any purpose, the doorbell rings again. This time, it’s his mother grimacing at him from the doorstep. There’s nothing but an overnight bag in her hand and she’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday evening, an immediate thumb stroking gently over Jackson’s healing lip. He’d honestly forgotten about the injury.

**“Mom?”** he croaks. Is he dreaming?

She ushers him inside and onto the couch, arms wrapping around him. **“I’m here, Jackson,”** she whispers into his hair, pressing kisses on top of his head as he curls into her warm embrace. It’s home and safety and maybe he cried too much yesterday, because the expected tears don’t come. He still wraps his arms around her waist, breathes in deep to catch a wisp of her flowery perfume.

**“Why’d you come?”** His voice cracks but it’s his mother. The one person who won’t judge if he comes undone.

She holds him tighter. **“Because you’ll always be my baby,”** she tells him softly. **“I know you’re growing up, and I’m so proud of you, but I’ll always be your mother, and everyone needs their mother sometimes.”**

He’s missed her _so much_. Whatever powers his mother possesses, she knows him better than he can ever understand. The tension runs out of his shoulders and that’s when the tears come, ugly and loud as he tries to burrow into her. She hums a melody from when he was a child, holding him as close as she still can despite his growth spurt (not that he’s tall now, but tall _er)_.

**“It’s alright,”** she promises him after a while, still rocking him and rubbing a soothing hand over his back. **“I’m here, Jackson, it’s all okay.”**

It’s not, not even by a long shot, but it’s better. It’s safety and hope and closing his eyes to drive away the nightmare of yesterday with the soothing voice of his mother. Cocooned inside her arms he admits the fear that’s dragging his shoulders down, that rears up at random times and presents him with Jinyoung’s cold laugh and Mark choking on poison.

**“He doesn’t even know me that long, mom.”**

His mother’s hand stills. **“What do you mean?”**

**“Mark,”** Jackson croaks, still hiding his face in her shoulder. **“He barely knows me, and-”** and he could have died, went through all that pain, did it all _knowingly_ , just for Jackson.

**“It’s not your fault, Gaga,”** his mother’s voice goes stern. **“The police are going to make sure the boy who did this gets what he deserves because _he’s_ the one responsible. It’s not you.”**

He _knows_ that.

**“I don’t feel responsible, mom,”** he hiccups tearfully, sniffling. **“I mean, maybe a little, but that’s just because I was so useless and-”** his voice goes small, memories of Jinyoung forcing that last cap down Mark’s throat leaving him shaking. **“I’ve never felt that helpless and I was scared. I’ve never been that scared. I hated it.”**

The arms around him tighten. Damnit. He doesn’t want to make her more worried. She’s already ruining her sleep and normal life over him having a bad experience. The last thing he wants to do is make her feel worse.

**“I’m okay now,”** he pulls back and tries for a smile, but her worried frown robs him of the ability to lie. **“Mom-”**

She cups his cheek, face stern but loving and her black hair tied back to highlight her sharp features. He’s always known his mother was a force to be reckoned with, but he still gulps at the steel in her eyes. **“Jackson,”** she tells him, then softly grabs his face with both hands, **“my Wang Jiaer. I am so proud of you.”**

It sinks icily into his stomach and makes his breath hitch. **“But I didn’t even do anything! Mark’s the one who protected _me!”_**

**“You did,”** she says, fierce. **“And I’m certain Mark can see that too.”**

**“But, Mom! No!”** It’s all wrong, _she’s_ all wrong. **“The way he- he could’ve- Mom, he looked so bad!”**

His breath hitches again as the memories come back, his mother’s face falling and he can’t stop even though he faintly realizes he’s adding to her worries.

**“I was scared, okay. I was- he wouldn’t stop and Jinyoung wouldn’t stop and _no one else_ would stop them and- I thought Mark was going to die and I was just going to have to _watch_. I’ve never been that scared for anyone, not ever, not even-”**

Not even when his brother got sick with pneumonia that one time and the doctors wrote it off as a simple flu and Jackson was home alone with him when he started gasping for air. Because even then, even in the face of his brother’s panic and pain, Jackson could run to the neighbors and get _help._

When Mark was choking on poison, Jinyoung cackling about the pain he was causing, Jackson couldn’t do _anything._

**“Mark barely knows me,”** he confesses quietly. **“People are always friendly to me, but I don’t have that many friends. None, actually. Not here. And I thought- I’d hoped that Mark … but what if he doesn’t- I mean, he did _that_ for- for _me,_ and-”** He looks up into his mother’s eyes and can’t help but feel small and scared and like he just came back from his first day of kindergarten. **“Mom, what if he just hates me because I’m _not_ worth doing _that_ for? I’m just _me.”_**

And Mark’s a damn angel, some sort of silent superhero, who’s going to figure out sooner or later that Jackson isn’t at all a person worthy of that kind of protection.

There’s a reason Jackson doesn’t have any friends despite always being told he’s ‘so nice’. People always _leave._ They don’t do what Mark did. Not for him.

His mother just keeps looking at him with damp eyes. Then she smiles, tucking some hair behind his ear. **“I might be a little biased,”** she teases and Jackson snorts. Shocker. **“But in my opinion,”** her eyes go warm and her smile brilliant. **“I think Mark is the first one to get it right about you.”**

He clears his throat, blinking freshly burning eyes. **“You might be a little too biased.”**

She laughs melodiously and cards her fingers through his fringe, calling his attention back. **“I _am_ your mother,”** she says sagely, then falls into a worn smile. **“And as your mother, as much as I wish none of it had ever happened, I am so _very_ grateful for what Mark did. I would never wish it on anyone, especially someone you rave about as much as you do, but I will forever be grateful to him.”** She keeps holding his face, despite the fresh tears leaking out of his eyes. **“If only because maybe this’ll make you understand that you, my little Wang Jiaer, are worth someone caring _that much.”_**

He can’t stop his sob, blinking furiously as he’d been trying to stay away from that thought. I mean, there’s _no way_ Mark considers him that good of a friend after this little time, right? Jackson’s the only one who does stupid stuff like that. **“He’s just a really nice guy,”** he counters feebly, lower lip trembling and his mother leans in close, until their foreheads are almost touching.

**“Yes, he is. But so are you.”** She gives him a quick kiss on the nose, drawing a smile out of him as it tickles and he’s reminded of his younger years. When his mother was some sort of goddess to him, always leaving healing kisses and presenting a guiding hand. For this one small moment, he allows himself to fall back to that, to take her hands in his as they leave his cheeks and hold them in his lap. His mother keeps smiling at him.

He bits his lip before asking his next question. The answer is probably already obvious, especially since it’s his mother he’s asking it to, but he thinks he just needs to hear the words out loud. **“Do you really think Mark won’t resent me for this?”**

**“If he’s anything like the boy you make him out to be, then yes, I do.”**

Which should make Jackson feel better considering it’s precisely what he wanted to hear, but the nerves in his stomach are still going wild and he leans into his mother’s side, hoping he can stay glued to her for every second she’s here before she has to leave again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, I love character exploration shizzle. Do you?
> 
> If you can, let me know what you think!
> 
> (And thank you for sticking with me this long. Those last two chapters were just unhinged ... but I'm in a mood, so no excuses from me.)
> 
> One more to go!


	7. Mark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all medical knowledge in this story is from google and my own deductions. Like I said, I'm taking liberties with a lot of things, in this chapter especially. So please, for your own health, just assume that all of the info in here is incorrect, or at the very least incomplete. If you end up accidentally ingesting harmful chemicals, call your doctor or a poison hotline. Also, do not ever ingest harmful chemicals. Please.
> 
> Last chapter, here we go!

The police come to talk to him just ten minutes after he wakes up. All he’s been told is that he’s been asleep for three days to give his throat time to heal from the excessive vomiting and harmful chemicals, and that Jackson is fine.

He doesn’t like the word ‘fine’ very much, but he’ll take it.

It takes his mother’s wheedling and guilt-tripping for him to start talking, but once he does, he can’t stop. He’s back under the bridge, Jinyoung pulling all the strings, while Jackson’s tied up and in a choke hold, quite literally a lamb to the slaughter.

And Mark’s the one who put him there.

He tells the officers everything starting from last year, right up to the point where he drank the second cap under the bridge and he confesses things go disconnected and blurry. Conversations became simple snippets, nothing concrete, and his thoughts eventually narrowed down to ‘save Jackson, do what Jinyoung says’ as crazy as that sounds once he says it out loud.

Having his mother sit through it all right next to him probably hurts the most.

They have to fill him in on most of what happened when the other boys showed up. Mark remembers that they did, but for the life of him can’t connect names or faces, or even say how many there were. He’d been zoning out more and more, insides burning and twisting. He’d even been convinced his mother was there because someone kept dragging their fingers through his hair, one of his mom’s favorite calm-down methods, and is shocked to hear that it’d been _Jackson_ who’d done that.

Apparently, his friend sat with him the whole time, not even caring Mark was half-delirious and _puking_ , while holding his hand through it all. At least, that’s how the officers found them. The paramedics had a hard time convincing Jackson to let go right up until they carried Mark to the ambulance, and then Jackson wouldn’t leave the hospital until he talked to Mark’s mom.

Jackson did all of that just for Mark.

He turns to his mom after the officers leave. “Is Jackson really okay?” His gut churns with phantom nausea and worry. “Mom, Jinyoung beat him up. He got hurt.” He still remembers the sound of Jackson gasping for air, not even Mark’s own retching enough to drown that out.

“He’s okay, sweetie,” she promises. “I saw him that night. He was worried about you.” She gives him a sad smile. “He was sorry.”

Mark wants to scoff at that, but his entire mid-riff is still beyond exhausted, throat sore and stomach radiating a deep muscle ache. Yep, it’s a muscle. It can apparently feel like that. Mark truly hopes at some point he’s _not_ going to feel sick anymore.

He swallows down angry words, not about to snap at his mother, but the fatigue pulling at his eyelids has him scrambling to find other ones. An after effect of the meds keeping him under, the doctor said.

“It’s not his fault,” he tells his mom through half-lidded eyes. Damnit, this is important! “Mom, it’s not. If anything, it was mine. I’m the one that put him in danger. I’m the reason Jinyoung went after him.”

She gives him a painful smile and leans down to kiss his cheek. It feels inordinately wet. Is he crying? Probably. His mother blurs out and he can’t fight his closing eyes any longer, so damn fed up with being helpless and useless and just _standing there while Jinyoung dangles Jackson over his head and being good for nothing because Jinyoung is going to keep giving him caps until he blacks out and then he’ll do it to Jackson and Mark is worse than useless because all he knows how to do is get sick._

_He couldn’t save BamBam._

_He couldn’t save himself._

_He can’t save Jackson._

_Jinyoung smiles, laughs, cackles even, as he presses the cap to Jacksons lips. Mark can’t move, frozen on the ground as if the knife that’s twisting in his gut is literally pinning him._

_“Stop!” he begs. But Jinyoung tips the cap, Jackson gurgling on blue liquid._

_It’s not a cap, it’s the whole bottle, tipping further and further. There’s no one around, no one but Yeon-U, Joonhyung, Minseok and Junpyo sneering behind Jackson._

_“Please stop,” his voice doesn’t even carry, no one hearing him as Jinyoung lets Jackson go with an elated laugh and watches him fall sideways. “Jackson! No, stop!” Why can’t he move! He looks down, expecting to see a gaping wound with how much it’s hurting, but there’s nothing until he takes his hand away. It comes back sticky and covered in blue, the liquid soaking his shirt._

_He can’t breathe as it shoots out of his mouth, can’t move, can’t even beg._

_Jinyoung drags him up, the hand on his neck almost tearing his muscles._

_“You, or Jackson,” the boy sneers with a cap of blue liquid in his hands. Only the blue is already inside Mark, it’s pouring down his chin and burrowing into his insides, his fingers wet and slippery as it soaks through his shirt._

_He can’t anymore._

Stop _, he begs in his mind._ Please, Jinyoung, stop.

_Jackson is screaming. Someone holds his neck, choking him. The others are hitting him, and Mark can’t move because he’s drowning with Jinyoung right next to him, pouring the so-maniest shot down his throat._

_Jinyoung never stops._

“Mark.”

“Sto-” he half-gasps, half-chokes. A phantom hand keeps holding his neck for a few more seconds as the dim interior of the hospital stares back at him. He fell asleep mostly sitting up. A hand on his shoulder quickly retracts.

Jackson’s sitting on his left side, eyes wide and hands up. “Sorry,” he rushes. “I just- I wasn’t supposed to wake you but I think you were having a nightmare? You kept mumbling about-” he bites his lip and Mark already knows what he heard. Damnit. “About Jinyoung,” Jackson finishes, slowly putting his hands down. Then he lets out a nervous laugh. “Did you know you dream in Korean?”

He, in fact, did not. Or, more precisely, he’d never thought about it. “Guess I’m not that bad at it after all,” he tries as a joke, only it falls flat when his voice is still much too rough and grating, Jackson visibly flinching as he hears it. His friend’s face instantly falls, guilt dragging his shoulders down.

_Ah, hell._

“I’m fine,” he says as softly as he can. “I mean, you talked to my mom, right? She told you?”

He sort of figures, what with his mom adoring Jackson (he’s such a sweet, well-mannered boy) and them already knowing each other. Jackson nods and fiddles with the sheets a bit, pushing his history book further down the bed. So _that’s_ what he’d been doing.

_Wait a minute._

Mark frowns. “How long have you been here?” The question comes out before he remembers seeing a clock here before and he focuses on it, just able to see the hands despite the low lighting. Then his jaw drops. Literally.

“Jackson,” he snaps his eyes back, not sure whether to be worried or touched. “It’s eight o’clock, in the _evening_ ,” if perhaps that part wasn’t obvious. “How are you even still here?”

Because no way would a hospital just let a random boy stay that long past visiting hours. At this, Jackson cracks a grin, huffing.

“Your mom,” he says quietly, eyes twinkling as he looks up. “She told the doctors we’re brothers. And when they questioned our last names she just said we had different fathers.”

It’s so his mom, he snorts before remembering he shouldn’t. “Ow,” he groans and _god_ can’t he keep that to himself for once! But it feels like he’s going to be sore for months, every muscle having worked over-time _twice_. Moving his chest just to breathe is already pushing it.

Jackson, as expected, takes it all much too seriously. He jumps up, eyes shooting to the door. “Do you need a doctor? Should I get your mom?”

“No.” Christ, he still sounds all wrong, breathy and strained as he gets his seizing muscles under control. They did _not_ like that. “I’m just sore,” he tries to reassure Jackson, softly rubbing his stomach with his right hand with the literal, begging thought of _calm down, please._

Luckily, nothing happens. It really is just after-effects of- … yeah, not _ever_ doing that again.

 _Not even for Jackson?_ His brain pipes up. The worst thing is, he doesn’t know. He wants to say he would, but it was probably his most miserable and painful experience to date, and that’s counting the time he broke his rib.

…Okay, so maybe they’re at a shared first place, whatever.

Point being, he wants to say yes, wants to prove he’s actually a good guy, but there’s lingering doubt as the nightmare crashes back in and the phantom experience of bile choking him clenches his throat.

He promptly shuts his eyes to push the nightmare away, biting his lower lip because it wasn’t real. It’s all okay. Jinyoung’s gone.

He honestly forgot Jackson’s even there until a hand grabs his left one, the one lying on the covers, probably shaking because Mark is so fucking scared of his memories. How sad is he? Probably a whole lot because Jackson’s hand helps, especially when the other tightens his hold, and Mark kind of wants to cry. This boy is way too nice to be friends with him. _Why_ is Jackson friends with him?

“I really can go get your mom, you know,” Jackson almost whispers, probably thinking Mark fell back asleep with how long his eyes have been closed. He opens them slowly, trying for a smile. Jackson’s worried expression doesn’t change.

“I’m okay, I promise,” he squeezes Jackson’s hand. “Thanks for waking me up.”

For some reason, that doesn’t alleviate the mood as Mark hoped, instead it makes it worse and Jackson blinks his eyes, fast. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m really, so sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay. I actually _was_ having a nightmare, so…”

Jackson huffs out a mirthless laugh that becomes a sob halfway through. He leans his other arm on the bed, holding his head in his hand while never letting go of Mark’s hand. He looks suddenly terrified. “Can you _not_ joke about this, please.”

The temperature plummets because Jackson’s _crying_. He sniffles, quickly wiping away the tears.

“Jackson,” Mark cautions, suddenly convinced the other isn’t talking about nightmares at all. At least, not the literal ones. “You know that it wasn’t your fault, right?”

Because Mark’s been here before, sort of. Only back then it was BamBam, shuffling in place as he apologized to Mark in a secluded section of the school for not helping him. He’d told him it was fine, that he understood, which he did, and that had been the last time they spoke until Jackson forced them together a few days ago.

He doesn’t want that to happen with Jackson.

The other hangs his head, drawing in a shaky breath. Their joined hands are slowly growing warm and Mark hopes he can simply hold his friend here until they’ve fixed whatever is making Jackson look this broken. If they can.

“I know, okay, I know that. But-” He bites his lip, blinking wet eyes and Mark can’t feel glad about the admission when Jackson still looks shattered. “What happened-” he drags in a breath, visibly backtracking. “What _Jinyoung_ did, what- what _you_ did.”

Ah. He might have to ask Jackson to elaborate on that, because Mark’s done a lot of stupid stuff lately. Not telling Jackson about Jinyoung from the beginning probably tops that list, though sneaking behind the back of a psychopath is also a worthy contender.

He grimaces, swallowing down nausea (because his stomach hurts from throwing up, oh, the irony) and glaring at the sheets. His right hand is nice and warm on his agitated stomach, though he has sudden vision’s of reaching sideways and wiping the tear from Jackson’s cheek.

Before he can finish the thought, the boy does it himself. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I should’ve-”

“Gaga,” Mark tightens his hold, waiting until those teary eyes are looking at him. Getting lost in Jackson’s face is easy and he lets himself, pouring his honesty into his gaze. He’s never been one for words, more for actions. This time, he’ll make a bit of an exception. “What do you keep telling me,” he murmurs, hoping it’ll mask the roughness of his voice.

Jackson frowns as he sniffles. “What?”

“This past week, what did you keep telling me?”

Jackson’s still confused, eventually shrugging. This boy is so honest and so foolish sometimes. Mark smiles at him.

“You said it wasn’t my fault, and that it wasn’t BamBam’s fault, right? So, then it’s not yours either.” He grins at him, albeit tiredly. “Your logic, not mine.”

“It’s not about ‘fault’,” Jackson croaks. “It’s not- it’s not the same.”

“Because it’s you and not us,” Mark comments dryly. _Wow._ Didn’t see _that_ coming.

Jackson glares at him though his wet eyes dampen the effect. “Because I’m not trying to punish myself for something Jinyoung did or even deny the fact that _he’s_ the psychopath who caused all this. But- fuck it, man, _I_ was the one stupid enough to provoke Jinyoung in the first place!”

_Oh brother._

In all fairness, Mark is tired and still kind of sickly, which means he’s talking without thinking about it. “And I’m the one who joined his gang and managed to get you on his radar, but you seem to have very loud opinions about that as well,” he gives Jackson a soft glare. “It’s not your fault, Jackson.”

But Jackson is stubborn.

“You or me,” he sits up straight, eyes narrowed. “That’s what Jinyoung said, that’s what he _threatened with_. And you-”

“Like I was ever going to choose you,” Mark hisses. Now he’s pissed. Faintly he thinks this might answer his earlier question about whether he’d do it again for Jackson, but mostly he’s just furious this idiot in front of him can’t see what he’s worth. “That shit wasn’t meant for you, it was meant for me!”

“Of course it was meant for me!” Jackson counters incredulously. “Jinyoung literally said so!”

“Because he told you all about his grand plans on the way over, is that it!”

“No! Because he got really damn furious about you being a much better person than he’d anticipated somewhere between the second and third shot of poison he was forcing down your throat!” Jackson shouts in one breath, then breaks their hold, hiding his sudden snarl and tears behind his hands as he leans back angrily in his chair. The sudden loss of contact hurts, though not as much as Jackson’s words. What the hell had he missed while being sick as a dog?

“I knew it,” Jackson mumbles angrily to himself, rubbing his hands over his face. “I knew you were out of it.” With a sudden intensity he stares at Mark, hands falling to his lap. Jackson’s face is tearstained, his eyes red, but there’s worry and regret in the lines around his mouth. “You kept choosing yourself, man, but he didn’t want you to.”

He didn’t? Well, he sure had a funny way of showing it.

Jackson keeps talking. “Jinyoung wanted you to choose _me,_ he wanted _me_ to drink that stuff. I don’t know _why_ he was making it so _convoluted_ , but he wanted it to be _me._ ” He huffs and suddenly sounds insanely small. “I guess he didn’t count on you being a fucking hero.”

“I’m not a hero,” he grates. If anything, because it’s an insult to all those who _are._

Jackson stares at him, something tired and heavy in his gaze. “You just don’t see it. Mark, Jinyoung wanted you to pick me, _I_ wanted you to pick me, literally _everyone under that bridge_ wanted you to pick me. Except for you! I mean, the game was rigged! They set it up so that you _would_ pick me!” His voice wobbles and he licks his lips, dragging a hand through his hair. A desperate, high-pitched giggle comes out, quickly turning into a cut-off sob. “You are literally,” he breathes with closed eyes, “the only person who doesn’t see it.”

There’s too much going on inside Mark’s head, too many emotions and words he can never say. It’s frightening, even more so when he just wants to grab Jackson’s hand again and not let go. It seems like the better option than crying. Jinyoung honestly thought Mark would just … let Jackson get sick? That he’d just throw Jackson under the bus like that?

“If even the psychopath thinks you’re evil,” he mumbles, distracted by his own thoughts, “maybe you are.”

Jackson does his half-laugh, half- sob again, this time leaning forward with his elbows on the bed and burying both his hands in his hair. “You’re not, Mark. You’re really _not.”_

Maybe. Conceivably. If he lets himself follow Jackson’s logic and forget the ugly and scared part in himself that wanted to run and hide and let Jinyoung do it to _anyone else_. “It’s not like I wasn’t scared,” he eventually counters feebly. He’s been staring at Jackson all this time, at the soft, floppy hair the other isn’t hiding for once and the large hoodie he’s never actually seen Jackson in. He wasn’t aware the other did oversized clothing. It looks good on him. Then again, most things do.

After a strained silence during which Mark may have been staring a bit too much, Jackson finally lifts his head up and gives Mark a look like he’s some sort of wounded puppy. It’s a little much and he squirms, grimacing when it pulls on his stomach and midriff in general.

Jackson’s huff sounds almost fond. “Well duh. I was scared too, you know. Scared out of my _mind_ actually. But you do realize you’ve only known me for a little over a week, right?” His eyes go soft. “What you did, _for me_ ,” he bites his lip, pained. “You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met.”

The sudden warmth in Mark’s gut isn’t uncomfortable but he shifts because he doesn’t know what it is, meaning he grimaces and then Jackson does too which is stupid because Mark feels … good. He’s a little warm and shy and would very much like to hide under his blankets after Jackson’s little speech, but …ugh, why is Jackson so … so _Jackson._ He forces words out of his mouth as he blinks at the sheets just to have something else in the air around them.

“I think that’s a little too much coming from you.” He tries for airy, but it ends on strangled.

Jackson blinks at him. “Why’s that?”

God, he’s going to make him say it. Why is he so bad at this!

“Because…” Come one, you can do this. You’ve got this. “Because you’re the best person _I’ve_ ever met.”

His ears are burning which means he’s probably sporting a nice, red color. Hopefully the dim lights will give him a break. There’s no response for a while as Mark glares at the sheets (why did you say that!) and then there’s a sniffle. A cautionary look up reveals Jackson is smiling, albeit wobbly, meaning maybe this isn’t all ruined.

“You think _that_ isn’t too much?” Jackson laughs wetly. “You really don’t see it, huh.”

There’s that phrase again. “See what?”

Jackson shakes his head, dragging a sleeve over his eyes. “Nothing, man. It’s nothing.”

“Jackson-”

“You also really don’t hate me for what happened with Jinyoung, do you?” His voice is cautious, but his eyes are bright. The question is ludicrous enough Mark snorts again, paying the price when his insides seize up for a second.

“No-ow- no, Gaga. I really _don’t.”_

“I guess this time it was all in _my_ head,” Jackson whispers so softly Mark almost doesn’t catch it. He glances at Jackson.

“What?”

Jackson quickly shakes his head, smile bordering on genuine. “Nothing, just. Your mom’s pretty awesome, you know.”

Strange little topic change, but, “Yeah, I know.”

Suddenly Jackson’s frowning at Mark’s chest, more specifically at the hand that’s rubbing unconscious circles on Mark’s stomach. “Why do you keep doing that? Does it hurt?” The boy goes from smiling to painfully worried in under one second and is seriously going to sit there and proclaim _Mark_ to be the best person he’s ever met? He’s only known Jackson for a week and is already kind of scared of ever losing him.

“Just sore,” he tells him, throwing in a small smile. The other seems to have dropped his insane ‘it’s all my fault’ campaign, But Mark isn’t sure if it’s because he’s allowing himself to believe otherwise, or because he’s doing it for Mark’s sake. Then again, Mark is sort of doing the latter, but then for Jackson’s sake, so maybe he shouldn’t be the one to judge.

So long as Jackson’s safe and Jinyoung is gone (because the officers did say before they left that the case was pretty solid and Mark knows his mother will _never_ drop it), then that’s all that matters for now. Because it’s late (but not really) and Mark’s convinced he’s going to be tired for a week.

After a lot of thoughtful staring on Jackson’s part, something Mark enjoys a little too much because it means he can trace every tuft of hair sticking up at a weird angle from Jackson’s bangs without too much shame, the younger suddenly reaches out his hands and places them palm down over Mark’s. The heat almost immediately seeps through the hospital shirt and into Mark’s skin. It maybe feels a bit like heaven, and he lets tension run out of his shoulders which he hadn’t even been aware of.

When he turns to Jackson the other is looking at him with somewhat darker cheeks, eyes shooting down when their gazes meet. Mark can’t even be bothered about the fact that his own face probably looks the same. He grins at Jackson, eyes half-mast again. The heat feels _good_.

“How’d you know that would work?”

Jackson shrugs, still not looking at his eyes. “I didn’t, just thought- ‘cause you said it was sore, like the muscles maybe, and heat tends to help with that.”

True enough. He lets himself sink into his pillow, closing his eyes as he carefully shifts the hand on his stomach. When Jackson doesn’t move away, Mark curls his fingers up and in between Jackson’s, intertwining their hands. The other lets him.

Just as he’s beginning to doze off, Jackson bursts out into near silent giggles, the hands on Mark’s stomach jerking as he shakes. He groans irritably, prying his eyes open to look at Jackson.

“What,” he mumbles.

“I’m sorry,” Jackson breathes, still shaking with giggles. He lays his head on his arm, meaning it’s half on Mark’s side as well. The sneaky devil looks up through his bangs, eyes twinkling. “I just kind of do this for my mom sometimes, you know,” he nods his head at their hands and he bites his lip, grin threatening to burst out.

Mark doesn’t get the joke, his brain lagging as fatigue creeps in much faster than usual. “Hold hands?”

Jackson starts shaking again. “Lend her my warmth,” he says cryptically and still smiling like a maniac. “It also tends to help with menstrual cramps.” He’s grinning and watching Mark, waiting for the other to get it.

“Did you just compare my vomit-induced stomachache to _menstrual cramps?”_

Jackson’s cackling for real now, smothering himself in the sheets though he keeps his hands as still as he can on Mark’s stomach. This boy is ridiculous and unbelievable, and Mark _never_ wants him to go away.

In fact.

He smirks, thinking he can just blame the meds later. “I guess I’m in the right hands then.”

Jackson stops laughing, staring at him with an incredulous smile. “Did you just?”

“Considering you have a lot of hands-on experience.”

“I’m not sure that’s how that saying-”

“Jack,” he can’t fight the grin in his voice, Jackson looking suddenly wide-eyed.

“Oh god, what.”

Mark _beams_ at him. “Would you consider me to be a hand-full?”

Jackson groans into his arms, though Mark‘s really only hurting himself with this. If snorting was bad news, then laughing is _evil_. He’s groaning before he knows it, muscles in his midriff stiff and achy and _not_ ready for movement. Luckily, though Jackson shakes his head at his horrible puns, the boy softly rubs his warm hands on Mark’s sore muscles, silently coaxing them back into cooperating.

Mark doesn’t even care how bad it sounds when he sighs at that, only thinking that Jackson’s a bloody godsent. “Thanks,” he hiccups, then does his best to relax. “And sorry.” Because he knows those puns were lame, but they were also _begging_ to be made.

He’s definitely blaming the meds later.

The room is pleasantly dark, the weight of Jackson’s arms soon accompanied by the boy’s head once again sinking down to lean low on Mark’s side.

“Shouldn’t you be going home,” he asks while fighting the closing of his eyes. His laughing fit left him more exhausted, but also strangely satisfied. Jackson hums.

“In a bit.”

Not like Mark minds and he lets his eyes fall shut, focusing on Jackson’s warm hands instead of the deep ache in his stomach. After a few quiet breaths the other speaks up again, voice nearing a whisper.

“I _am_ really sorry you had to do that for me.”

Mark’s having trouble constructing his words, but he knows Jackson needs something or the boy will keep fretting over this. “I’m sorry too,” he eventually manages, “for you.” Because the other had to watch.

Jackson hums again. It sounds like he’s smiling. “Do you think that maybe we should both stop being sorry?”

“Mhmm,” Mark hums an affirmative, something close to a smile pulling on his cheeks.

“…Hey, Mark.”

“Mmh?”

Jackson’s hands softly rub his stomach. “You’re really impossible,” the boy whispers with an audible grin.

Mark smiles, no longer sure he’s awake but not opposed to this new type of dreaming. “So you keep saying,” he mumbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....*peaks out from behind pillow* ... sooooo, what'd you think?
> 
> It ended with fluff!!! ...sort of *sweatdrops*
> 
> Yeah, again, I was having a mood. I've actually often made these kind of whump-stories in my head, but this is one of the first times I've written it down. So, if you can, tell me what you think, I'm reeeaaaally curious.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!! I loved writing this, despite it's topic, and maybe someone out there is as whacky as me and can enjoy this hurt/comfort monster I concocted!!
> 
> Stay safe and healthy!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Just to clarify: normal speech is Korean, underlined is English, and bolded is Mandarin.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this ... possibly even look forward to the rest? I have it all written, just need to edit it.
> 
> So yeah ... let me know what you think?
> 
> Stay safe out there!!


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